


The Darkest Crusade

by HeironymousPosh



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Necromancy, Occult, Original Character(s), Other, The Hamlet, The Ruins - Freeform, Undead, Violence, still a heiress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-05-17 22:53:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14840735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeironymousPosh/pseuds/HeironymousPosh
Summary: The ghosts of the past return to haunt the living. Terrible things begin to stir after centuries of slumber, and few are willing or able to stand up to the evil that is now flourishing beneath the Hamlet of Tauros.The crusader has fought many wars and tread many long roads, but his final destination now is at the end of the Old Road, facing an opponent that seems insurmountable. This crusade may take him into the blackest pits and darkest hallways beneath the old manor, but he will lead it from the front all the same.





	1. The Shadow on the Wall

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?”

Dismas peered down at the makeshift map in his hands, replete with dead ends and hastily scribbled comments. He grimaced as he took note of the fact that they had made a right turn, when they were supposed to make a left turn.

“We’re not going the right way,” he informed the others, as they halted. 

“Well, we can backtrack. We just need to head back to where we were, and we can correct our mistake!” Reynauld said, as though it were such an easy task. Dismas was not convinced.

“Yeah, just backtrack an hour and we’ll be set. Sounds great,” Dismas scoffed.

“Come now, Dismas. Have a little bit of faith in me,” Reynauld teased him, examining his surroundings while they took a break. 

The ruins of the Lancette family’s once noble estate might have once been opulent and imperial in nature. Tapestries, freshly woven and brimming with color, would have adorned the stonework, placed amid delicate furniture and imposing suits of castle-forged steel armor. Sitting rooms and dining halls would have been lavishly furnished and decorated with paintings from distant lands. Feasts would have been extravagant: juicy cuts of ham from the rootings of Tenarum, amber and golden wines from the lush vineyards of Sham, shellfish from the Caesian coast, and the sweetest pastries available. Man and woman alike would laugh and love and dine their way into contentment and comfort.

No longer. The tapestries that remained had fallen apart, eaten away by moths or by darker, less natural forces. Furniture had either been looted by the daring, or had fallen into disrepair and decomposition through time. Rooms were hollow and empty, dust covered each and every surface, the lights had long gone out, and the only sounds one could hear were the faint whispers of the forgotten, creeping their way through the endless halls of House Lancette. 

“I think we ought to break for a bit longer. We need to wrap more torches.”

Katherine snapped him out of his observational trance. He had almost forgotten that she was accompanying them.

_ Quiet as a mouse, this one is. Humble, too. I can see why her convent nominated her to make the journey here.  _

“I agree,” Reynauld said.

“Well, if it gives me more time to figure out this damned map,” Dismas said, cursing as he studied it with all the intensity of a falcon studying its rodent prey.

“You drew it, Dismas,” Reynauld pointed out.

Dismas had no response. He was busy trying to work out his own comments and nonsensical ramblings, and struggling to read his own convoluted map. Reynauld had better things to do; he set himself to helping Katherine, who set her pack down and drew out pitch and swaddling cloth for the torches they had left. 

“Let me help you,” Reynauld insisted.

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” she replied.

“It’s only right for me to help.”

She could not argue. 

_ The faithful must bond and work together. Knit ourselves like flesh so that each may increase the Light within one another.  _

To be quite honest, Reynauld did not remember which verse of the  _ Chansons  _ that came from, but he remembered the words like his own birthday. They brought him comfort, when the world around him became dark and he found himself struggling, and they were inspiring to those who had faith. 

“It is really no trouble,” Katherine insisted, but Reynauld would not budge. He helped her wrap the last of their torches as Dismas, sitting against a rusted suit of squire’s armor, finally came to some sort of epiphany.

“Found it,” he said, sounding more confident now. “I just had to do a little bit of thinking.”

“Maybe one of us should draw the map next time,” Reynauld suggested. He was only teasing, of course. 

“Yeah, I’d like to see your fat fingers draw,” Dismas scoffed.

“It’s not fat, it’s muscle,” Reynauld retorted.

“That’s always the cover. It’s no-”

“Gentlemen. On the wall.”

Both stopped and turned to Katherine’s voice, and from there followed her finger to the spot on the wall it was identifying. In the dim light of their failing torch, five minutes before, they had missed it. Now it was very clear, completely illuminated by the renewed torchlight yet failing to divulge any of its secrets.

“What is it?”

“Someone else has been here,” Reynauld ventured.

“Someone. Or something,” Katherine said. 

“Don’t remind me,” Dismas grumbled.

“What do you make of it, Katherine?” Reynauld asked.

The marking on the wall, likely created by application of charcoal to the cold stone, was a half-moon shaped arc, decorated with jutting spikes that all pointed inwards to some central object that resembled...a what? What did it resemble? Reynauld couldn’t quite decipher it, as the charcoal was smudged and the light wasn’t quite strong enough. 

“It’s evil,” Katherine murmured, drawing nearer to it to examine it more closely. 

“This whole place is evil,” Reynauld replied. But she was quiet, her attention now fixated on the strange emblem. The wall appeared to be ever so slightly darker where the charcoal had touched it, as though the marking was casting a shadow upon the stone, suffocating any ray of light that drew near. Even when Reynauld brought the torch closer to the wall, it did not illuminate the marking any more. 

“The very symbol itself is dark,” Katherine noted. She reached a hand out but did not touch the marking or the wall, hesitating before she could go any further. 

“Hey, guys?”

Reynauld ignored Dismas for a moment, intent on trying to discern the meaning behind the strange emblem.

“Does it look like anything familiar to you?” Reynauld asked her.

“I cannot say so. There is nothing in my books that is like this,” Katherine admitted, sounding a little unnerved.   
“Hey. Guys.”

“Dismas, just give us a-”

“We don’t have time for that,” Dismas said, lowering his voice to an uneasy whisper. 

“What?”

“Listen,” Dismas demanded. 

Reynauld did as he was told. He held his breath and strained his ears to try and discern any voice or noise from beyond. It took him a few seconds, but he heard what Dismas heard.

_ Clanking. Armor, and bones. Evil comes upon us.  _

“We’ve got company, yeah?” Dismas asked, drawing his dirk from its worn scabbard. 

“They must’ve been following us for a while,” Reynauld said, drawing his own blade. The longsword, forged from Arretian steel and built with a long quillon and tight leather grip, had served him for ten years, at his side through every conflict and duel he had been engaged in. It would serve him well here, too. 

“You think so?”

“They’re just now catching up. They must’ve been tracking us,” Katherine observed.

“We will dispatch them quickly,” Reynauld promised, lowering his faceplate into place. Even though his vision was limited and sweat would quickly accrue due to the heat, he wanted all of the protection he could get. 

He handed the torch to Dismas, who set it in a nearby empty sconce and drew himself up for battle. Katherine stood behind them, iron mace in one hand and her copy of the  _ Chansons  _ on the other. The sound of rattling armor drew nearer, and now they could hear footsteps marching in unison.

_ A battalion of the damned. Let them come. We will show them the Light.  _

Reynauld gripped his blade tighter, standing in the middle of the hallway - Katherine to his left, Dismas to his right. 

_ Let them come. Come to me.  _

Shapes emerged from the darkness ahead of them, moving in tight formation as they advanced. They were dressed in bits and pieces of rusting, crumbling equipment: scraps of chainmail, an assortment of boiled leather pieces, ancient clothing torn and ragged, and even scraps of burial cloth. Their weapons were equally assorted and often crude, though some of them bore arming swords and hatchets with clearly sharpened edges.

“Dismas, stay to the back! Katherine, light!”

They were ready for the fiends. The undead never strategized or planned their mode of attack; they marched in formation, but that was about all that could be said of them. They made no attempt to approach the fight in a tactical manner, but all moved forward at once, voiceless and animated only by some unknown power. 

_ That makes it easy.  _

Reynauld easily sidestepped the nearest skeleton, which swung its axe at his head furiously, and delivered his own blow in turn, severing its skull from its neck. He repeated this action three other times before he had to back away, facing sharp spear-points from several attackers. That was when Dismas leapt into action, firing his pistol at point blank range and taking two of them out with a single shot. Dirk in one hand and pistol in the other, he dove into the fray and weaved between enemies, dodging the clumsy blows of his skeletal foes and carefully repositioning himself on Reynauld’s left side. 

Katherine, for her part, was struggling to do her duty. Something was interfering with her power, and she was furiously flipping through her book of  _ Chansons _ , as though trying to figure out what was wrong.

“Katherine! Light!” he shouted, struggling to be heard over the din of battle and the clattering of steel.

“Something’s wrong with it!” Katherine shouted back. Normally, all she had to do was read the passage of the book that she needed, and she would have her illumination. But something was off. 

“You have to give me a moment,” she said, sounding rattled.

_ Aye, Sister. That I can do. But only a moment.  _

He rushed back into battle, driving his sword straight through another skull. The rabble collapsed, only to be replaced by another of its kin. Reynauld did not have enough time to dodge the blow, and his helmet rang with the force of the club’s impact. Though he was unhurt, he stumbled backwards, momentarily stunned, and had to raise his faceplate to get his bearings.

The skeleton was coming at him again, raising its wooden club as though ready to finish its foe off. Reynauld did not give it that pleasure, and dispatched the unholy menace quickly before it could bring its weapon down. He stepped back again after that, vision blurring and ears ringing from the strike. 

“Katherine, now would be a good time!”

“I can’t seem to get it to work,” she protested. “Something’s...blocking it!”

“What do you mean?”

Dismas’ pistol erupted and for a moment they were deafened. Dismas had made a clean shot and taken another two of the rabble down, but he was still left with six enemies in front of him, and he was forced to retreat in the face of their combined arms.

“I don’t understand it. I’ve never felt like I’ve been unable to do it before!” Katherine said. 

“Well, you’d better find out what’s wrong!” Dismas shouted, taking another few steps back to dodge the swing of a gnarly-looking rusted halberd.

_ Not helping, Dismas _ , Reynauld wanted to say, but he was too busy trying to think, and clear his ears. He could barely hear his own thoughts, let alone hear the others speak.

He turned his attention again to the marking on the wall. It seemed to almost... _ pulse _ with life, or some kind of dark mockery of life. The light of the torch was barely touching it now, and what little light arrived seemed to be sucked in to the emblem. 

“Katherine, step away from the wall!” Reynauld shouted.

“Wh-”

“Just do it, back up!” 

She did not protest, and opted to meekly take several steps back, as Dismas dodged another few blows coming his way. 

“Now try it!” Reynauld urged her, putting his faceplate back down. He did not want to be looking in her direction, not now. 

He heard her murmuring the words, and without a second’s notice the hallway erupted with light. He could see it, barely, through his faceplate; holding her mace aloft, she illuminated the entire hallway, bathing the walls in light. The skeletons immediately fell back, stumbling backwards as the light stunned them into submission. Dismas and Reynauld dove into their midst, slashing and hacking at the skeletons and returning the last of them to their graves, as it ought to be.

_ Back to sleep. Where you belong. The Light may claim you now.  _ The last skeleton, its skull cracked in two by a fierce blow from Reynauld’s own blade, collapsed to the ground, the dark magic that bound it to life now expired with its skull. 

“Aw, fuck yeah! That’s the stuff!” Dismas yelled, triumphant. 

His celebration was premature. Reynauld heard the twang of a crossbow string but was too late to warn either of them about the danger. Dismas, thankfully, was out of the line of fire; Katherine was not so lucky. The bolt jammed itself into her upper leg, tearing through cloth and leather with ease as it dug itself into her thigh.

The light dimmed as Katherine screamed.

She collapsed, but Reynauld scooped her body up before she could hit the floor.

Dismas shouted in rage as he fired his gun again, as more skeletons came up in pursuit. Some of them had crossbows; others bore vicious polearms and heavy swords, and were better armored than their now silenced comrades.

“Run or fight!?”

“She’s hit, we’ve got to go!” Reynauld cried. Katherine was heavy but adrenaline drove him forward, hauling her away from the scene of battle as Dismas covered the rear with his flintlock. 

“It hurts,” Katherine whimpered, struggling to clutch at the wound. Her arm failed her, though, and fell down at her side again.

“You’ve had worse, Sister,” Reynauld assuaged her. “Stay with me.”

“I will stay with you.”

“Keep your eyes open. We will get you out of here - Dismas, map!”

“They’re on my tail!” Dismas shouted, but Reynauld whipped his head around and he could see nothing. Only darkness behind them. 

_ But I can hear them. They are near. We must keep moving.  _

“She’s losing blood, I need the map!”

“Fuck, alright!”

Dismas was panicky but there was no need to worry; they were ahead of the horde and gaining on them with every passing minute. Eventually, the clanking and clattering ceased and they were alone once more: the three of them, two stumbling through the darkness, the other one slowly slipping away into darkness. 


	2. This Restless Soil

Reynauld did not remember too much about what had brought them to this point; the memory was hazy, a vague recollection of various emotions that he couldn’t quite piece together.

He remembered running.  _ Lots of running. We had been in a fight. Katherine was hurt, and badly.  _

They had run until they had reached a safe place, where Reynauld barred the door so that they could attend to her immediate needs before it was too late.

_ We got her out of there. But at what cost?  _

“Waiting for someone?”

Dismas snapped him out of his recollection and brought him back into the moment. A chilly draft brushed past his cheek and he could feel small rain droplets on his head, cold and merciless. Only one of the buildings surrounding the town square had its lanterns lit; that, of course, would be the tavern, always brimming with life.

“No. Let’s get inside, it’s going to get nastier out here,” Reynauld said, brushing raindrops off of the back of his neck.

“I’m with you there.”

They stepped over the threshold and into the damp waiting room of the sanitarium, which was lit by only a single sputtering lantern. The man at the front desk, a withered old husk, ordered them to tightly shut the door behind them and beckoned both of them forward.

“Visitation?” the man asked. His face, gaunt and drawn with age, was barely visible in the failing candlelight.    
“One of ours is ready to be checked out,” Reynauld replied. 

“Name?”

“Adelbard. Katherine.”

_ They told us today. Don’t turn us away. I need to talk with her.  _ Reynauld stood silently as Dismas fidgeted in place, both waiting on the old man to parse through a few leaves of brown paper, muttering incoherent phrases under his breath. He wondered if the man could even read in such atrocious lighting, but after a few more seconds he turned to them again.

“She’s on the second floor. Cell four. She is ready, but please speak to the chirurgeons before she leaves,” he asked. Reynauld promised and the two of them departed, progressing down an equally dreary hallway and up a flight of stone steps until they reached the promised room. 

“Reynauld? Dismas?”

Katherine’s room was dimly-lit as well, as the candle mounted on the assistant’s table had nearly gone out, and the drapes had been drawn over the windowpane. Yet even in the failing light, Reynauld could see a smile grow on her face as the two entered.

“We were told today was the day,” Reynauld said, closing the door behind him as he entered.

“That is what they said,” she replied, motioning for them to come closer. 

“How do you feel?” he asked as he walked to her side. 

“Much more alive,” she said. 

“I should hope so.”

“How long has it been?”

“About a month,” Reynauld answered. 

“We were worried, why’d they keep you for so long?” Dismas chimed in. 

“The wound became infected,” Katherine said. “The bolt...was swathed in some foul concoction. They have never seen it before, but they fought it off with herbs and flame.”

“Those creatures are unholy,” Reynauld said. “And everything they make, they corrupt.”

“I have since felt much better, and the pain is all gone,” she said. 

“Do you think you’re ready to get back on your feet, sister?” Reynauld asked, flashing her a halfhearted smile in the hopes that it would be convincing. She grimaced, but relented quickly.

“I suppose I must,” she said. 

“They  _ are  _ evicting you,” Dismas reminded her. “So, yes. You must.”

“Always a motivational one, aren’t you?” Katherine retorted.

“You know I’m not wrong,” Dismas fired back. Reynauld frowned disapprovingly at him and turned back to Katherine.

“Do you feel ready to leave?”

“I would not have it any other way,” Katherine said. “I’m tired of this room.”

Reynauld stooped down to help Katherine to her feet, but quickly found that she was not only capable of walking, but quite eager to do so. She embraced her newfound freedom and followed them out of the room, a little unsteady but otherwise stable, as they marched back downstairs. A couple of chirurgeons had gathered at the front desk, but their concerns were quickly brushed aside.

“I feel fine. I can walk. I do not feel dizzy. I am fine,” Katherine insisted, growing annoyed as they continued to nag at her.

“She is fine,” Reynauld added. “We need to get her outside, anyway.”

“She was scheduled to leave today, correct?” Dismas asked. 

“Aye, but we want to do some final tests,” replied one of the chirurgeons, a fat, balding man in a dirty apron and loose-fitting leathers. 

“Fuck your tests,” Dismas retorted. “We want our right hand back.”

Reynauld caught a glimmer of a smile on Katherine’s face.  _ He may not show it often, but he appreciates you.  _

“Well, I suppose-”

“Look, the expenses are already paid. Just let us pass,” Dismas continued.

The two chirurgeons shared a glance, and after a brief and wordless exchange, they relented.

“Very well. But if she needs to come back, the charges for care will increase,” the fat man warned.

“It’s not my gold, anyway. Why would I give a damn?” said Dismas.

Reynauld said nothing.  _ Maybe it would have been worthwhile to make Dismas shut his mouth, but...I suppose it’s worth letting him have his moment.  _ It was brief, anyway; the chirurgeons backed off, and the two escorted Katherine back outside, where the rain had abated somewhat. 

“Well, I was hoping for sunlight,” Katherine said, grimacing. 

“In Tauros? Ha,” Dismas chuckled. 

“It’s been a dull day, yes,” Reynauld agreed. “But perhaps we can find light elsewhere?”

A smile sprang to Katherine’s face almost immediately.

“I would like that, yes,” she said. 

“Well, you’ll have to excuse me, then,” Dismas interjected. 

“Where are you off to, now?” Reynauld stopped him before he could slip away. Dismas grinned devilishly at him and ran a hand through his knotty black hair, acting sheepish.

“Oh, you know…”

“It’s Wednesday, Dismas,” Reynauld chided. 

“Yeah? So?” Dismas said, furrowing his eyebrows. “Every day can be a drinking day. And you know I’m not fond of that abbey.”

“Suit yourself,” Reynauld said. “But watch your coin.”

“I always do, my friend!”

_ No, you do not,  _ Reynauld thought, but Dismas was already skipping off towards the tavern, pulling his cloak over his neck as he went. There was no point in accosting him and giving him one final warning. Reynauld was not a father anymore, and he had no wish to resume that kind of life. He turned instead to Katherine, who seemed to be regaining more composure with every passing second back on her feet. 

“Well, shall we?” Reynauld said. The abbey was not far and once they were inside, they could warm up a bit. 

“Yes, but the walk up the hill may be a bit rough. Can I count on you?”

“As always, sister,” Reynauld promised. 

* * *

 

The rain had started to pick up again by the time they had reached the abbey. Reynauld helped Katherine inside and they immediately felt warmer and more comfortable.

“This place still needs a lot of love,” Katherine said, looking around in wonder as she stepped inside the nave. “But it’s getting somewhere.”

“I’m sure the abbot has missed having you around,” Reynauld said. 

“Oh, he can always find others,” she said. “The ranks of the faithful are endless.”

_ Wish that were true, sister. But sometimes I wonder.  _ But he would say no more. Katherine was in her element right now, and he figured it would be harmless to let her relax a little and read her psalms in a holy place.

The abbey had seen better days, certainly, but it was improving every day. Scaffolding clambered up its foreboding stone walls, some of the benches had been replaced with makeshift ones forged out of sawed logs, and the holy relics that the abbot had been storing for so long had been returned to their reliquaries along the wall, bringing light and spirit to the abbey once again. Patches of the floor tiling were still missing, and the hole in the roof had only been temporarily fixed, but it was a work in progress. 

“Let us sit as far up front as we can. I always like that better,” Katherine said, beckoning him forward. He could not refuse such an offer, and took a seat beside her at the front of the assembly hall, right before the entrance to the chancel. 

“I forgot to bring your book,” he admitted. 

“It’s okay,” she said. “I know most of them by heart.”

“You would,” he chuckled. 

He did not join in as she began reciting verses from the  _ Chansons,  _ murmuring under her breath as she closed her eyes and leaned against the stiff, unvarnished back of the makeshift pew. She seemed to be almost in a trance, and it was oddly calming to watch her mutter the words and seem to actually enjoy every single one. But Reynauld had something pressing on the back of his mind.

_ Better give her a few moments. Let her enjoy it.  _

It was not long before she noticed that something was perturbing him, and she sat up, ceasing her recitations for a minute. 

“Reynauld, something is amiss,” she asserted. 

“Always the insightful one, weren’t you?” he said. Though he had attempted a joke, she was not moved at all. 

“No, seriously. What’s wrong?”

“I need to ask you a question, Katherine,” he admitted. “It may bother you.”

Katherine furrowed her eyebrows at him but let him continue speaking. 

“Do you remember anything about that last expedition?”

“I remember quite a bit. I remember it was...violent,” she began, twiddling her fingers nervously. “I remember fright. I remember pain. After that...obscurity.”

_ I can’t blame you, sister.  _ He let her continue.

“I remember it was also...darker than usual?” she said. That was what he needed to hear.

“Yes, yes,” he said, urging her on.

“It was, wasn’t it?”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you about,” he said. “Do you remember the sigil?”

Her twiddling stopped and she bit her lip. He could see her skin grow a shade lighter, as though the very memory caused fear and anxiety.

“I’m sorry if that-”

“I remember,” she blurted out, trying to maintain composure.  “It was an evil thing, Reynauld.”

“You said that back then, too,” he said. 

“I would be loath to discuss it in such a holy place,” she said. “In fact, I am loath to discuss it at all.”

“Katherine, this is important,” Reynauld insisted, placing a hand on her knee as compendious comfort and tapping her twice. “I’ve been thinking about it. Often. It stuck with me.”

“It’s a dark thing, something I don’t quite understand,” she admitted, her voice a little calmer and more composed. “It’s like the very ground we stand on.”

“What do you mean?”

“This restless soil, Reynauld...it’s, it’s tainted,” she said, wrestling with her words. “The very earth itself rejects light. Have you seen those trees? The bushes that grow beneath them? The grass at their feet?”

“I have seen it,” he affirmed. 

“It’s vile. And not by nature, no, by some other construct,” she said. “I fear it, Reynauld. I fear that place and I fear the things within it. And I think it would be wise to treat that sigil with caution, should you ever see it again.”

“Is there anything else you know about it? Have the Brown Sisters studied such a thing?”

“I think if they would, I would know,” Katherine admitted glumly. “This place is uniquely heinous, Reynauld. Nothing else like it in our land exists.”

_ I’m starting to figure that out,  _ he thought. The violence and struggles associated with a crusade against men, as Reynauld was accustomed to, paled in comparison to the terrors faced in a crusade against the damned. 

“I’m sorry I cannot be of more help,” she apologized. 

“At least you remember. I can thank you for that much,” he said. 

“I will say no more about it. I’m sorry.”

Reynauld patted her gently on the knee as if to say  _ you’ve done well.  _ In truth, he was unsatisfied, something within him desiring more knowledge. But there was nothing more that Katherine could provide to him, and she seemed to be agitated enough that he figured pressing the question would only result in woe. There could be another day for that, anyway.

He consigned himself to sit in uncomfortable silence as she resumed her incantations, all manner of evil prognostications forgotten in lieu of what he felt were comfortable lies.

_ The time will come when we face this darkness again,  _ he knew. And he knew it would be coming soon. 


	3. Another Drop in the Bucket

“Begging your pardon, mates, but could you spare a couple of chairs for my companion and I?”

The man was tall and seemed confident, bearing a wispy mustache and curly brown hair, and reminded Reynauld of a nobleman.

_ Quite out of place in Tauros, but who am I to say no? Tonight is a good night.  _

“Of course, of course,” he said, motioning to the newcomer and his quieter, queerly-dressed companion. “Spare chairs for you gentlemen.”

“My name is Maurice,” the curly-haired man introduced himself as he and his companion sat down next to Alasdair, who looked understandably perturbed as he studied the quieter, darker-skinned man. That man’s name was Herod, an odd name, but Reynauld decided it would be better to not mention  _ that.  _

“How’d you two meet?” he instead asked, hoping to engage both of them. Herod, however, had little to say, and seemed preoccupied with glancing at each and every one of them in turn, as his companion told his story. He only spoke when Dismas, sitting at Reynauld’s right side as always, asked about their trip down the Old Road. 

“I stabbed a man and gutted him,” Herod said, without a hint of any emotion on his face.

_ Nothing sadistic about it, nor anything regretful. This one, is one to watch,  _ Reynauld noted privately.

“It was a good fight!” Maurice said, smiling at his companion, who did not return the friendly gesture. 

“Any fight is a good fight if you win it,” Dismas said. As usual, Reynauld chose to ignore Dismas’ boastful attitude. 

“Well, welcome to you,” he said, addressing them both. “Newcomers are always needed here.”

Maurice spoke a bit about where he came from, and Reynauld noted that he was from Amalsium.  _ A shoreman. Wonder what brought him so far from his comfortable home.  _

“People know of this place,” Maurice continued. “They have some inkling of what’s going on here. But...little else.”

“I’m sure they have an inkling,” Reynauld said. “But they need more than that.”

“The situation sounded dire. The way the lads in Hawk’s Nest speak of it, it’s hell come to earth, and the land is wreathed in fire,” Maurice said. 

“The  _ lads  _ in Hawk’s Nest don’t know shit,” Dismas cursed. “Just because they’re the closest settlement and they’re on the edge of the Watching Wood doesn’t mean anything at all.”

“Strange things have been happening there, too,” Maurice replied. “The woods creak and groan in odd ways and a foul smell can be caught on the air on the windiest of days.”

“The weald spreads,” Reynauld muttered.

_ I haven’t been out there in weeks, but we all know. The fires burn every few days, now.  _ The farmers and smallholders on the edges of the barony had been struggling to keep the vigorous growth of the blight at bay, using fire and axes to remove the brush and chop down saplings when they had taken root. But their numbers were too few, and the weald was ever restless, ever eager to expand its tendrils across the countryside.

“The people we stayed with at the western end of the wood, they tell the most terrifying tales,” Maurice said. Herod was off in his own world now, and Alasdair was trading glances with him.  _ The bounty hunter is intuitive. He knows this stranger is...well, stranger. Stranger than the rest.  _

“As always,” said Reynauld.

“They speak of winged beasts greater than any man, and walking bones with blades as sharp as a razor!” Maurice reported.

“Oh?” Reynauld humored him.  _ Wouldn’t they like to know the truth. They might even be a bit disappointed.  _ A walking set of bones wielding nothing more than a club and a bad temper would be disappointing to purveyors of such fairy tales, certainly. But to him, the reality of the situation was just as terrifying to think about, particularly after what they had seen the last time. 

“Aye, and creatures of ferocious nature, predators of the most vicious types, and hateful guardians of the deepest glens,” Maurice continued. 

“And did you see any of these things?” Reynauld challenged him. He could see Dismas grin behind his mug as Maurice fell silent, his cheeks flushing a bright pink. 

“We didn’t see any of them, of course. The stories we heard at Hawk’s Nest, though…”

“The stories barely start to touch upon the truth,” Herod muttered, speaking up once more. 

“Agreed,” Reynauld added.  _ You’re a wise one. No wonder the bounty hunter has his eye on you. You might be dangerous.  _

They talked a bit more but Reynauld could tell that Alasdair was getting nervous, and that Herod was unsettled as well. Maurice went on, celebrating Alasdair for his recent acts of bravery in the weald, but the bounty hunter excused himself quickly, and less than a minute afterwards Herod followed. 

_ Hope they’re not at each others’ throats. There’s clearly some tension.  _

“Oh, my companion is an odd one,” Maurice admitted, dabbing at his sweaty brow with a handkerchief. 

“He’s quiet,” Reynauld noted. He was feeling the effects of his drink, but it was not enough to put him off of his feet. He could still think clearly, and act with confidence if need be.

“Yes, he always has been. Though I wouldn’t call him asocial, he’s not fond of company,” Maurice said. 

“He seems to stick close to you,” Dismas observed.

“I was his traveling companion, of course,” Maurice said. “We built a bond.”

“The Old Road will do that to you,” Dismas said soberly. He took a long swig from his ale and nearly emptied it. He moved to get more, but Reynauld placed a cautionary hand on his leg, as if to say  _ you’ve had enough.  _ Dismas understood, and remained in his chair.

“Well, it’s my hope that when I depart from this place, the situation is improved,” Maurice said. 

“That depends a lot on you,” Reynauld informed him. 

“And you as well, knight,” Maurice said. 

“I’ve never been knighted,” Reynauld corrected. 

“My apologies,” Maurice said, flushing a bit. “I saw a lot of you in my service time. I make assumptions, foolishly so.”

“You served?” Dismas asked. 

“I was with the Amalsium retinue for four years,” Maurice replied, smiling gaily. “Halberdier.”

“Did you ever see combat?” Reynauld asked. 

Maurice shook his head.

“Amalsium has few enemies, beyond outlaws and degenerates,” Maurice replied. “Nevertheless, it was a worthwhile venture.”

“You knew any knights?”

Maurice paused, as though considering his answer carefully. Somewhere farther back in the bar, a man and a woman were dancing maniacally amid a crowd of drunks and gleeful onlookers, who were taunting the couple and daring them to strip their clothes off. Reynauld observed their antics but paid them little attention, preferring his current company.

“I knew a few knights. I never liked them,” Maurice ended up saying, his answer devoid of detail. 

“I never was a knight. I may carry myself like one-”

“You were crusading, aye?” Maurice interrupted. 

Reynauld’s heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t used to people jumping to conclusions like that, much less so correctly.

“I was.”

“I knew a few of your lot, too. ‘Course, it was after they returned home.”

“I will not speak of my experiences with a stranger,” Reynauld ended the conversation.

Reynauld realized how cold he came off after the fact, but it didn’t bother him. He wasn’t keen on exposing his personal thoughts to somebody he had met fifteen minutes ago. Maurice was taken aback but moved on quickly, shrugging the entire matter off and excusing himself.

“Well, lads, it was lovely to meet you both. But I must look after my companion,” Maurice said. 

“You take care, now,” Reynauld said dismissively. Dismas did not even bother saying goodbye. Maurice left his seat, quickly paid for his drink at the bar, and departed in a hurry. 

“You made him feel bad,” Dismas said.

“He brought it upon himself,” Reynauld muttered. 

“Well, that’s a little harsh.”

“You know I don’t like to talk about such matters. Especially not when I’m drinking,” Reynauld said. He was feeling the alcohol’s effects more so, now, and that was his cue to get home and get some rest.  

“I didn’t have any particular feelings towards him,” Dismas reassured him. “I just like to taunt you.”

“I know you do.”

“What do you think about them?” Dismas inquired. 

“They’re new. They’re fresh. This place will break them in,” Reynauld said. 

“How pessimistic. Are you sure you’re really Reynauld?”

“Just being frank,” Reynauld said. 

“That’s a little franker than usual.”

“I want to believe in them. Believe me.”

“Well, we’ll see how the ruins treat them. Everyone’s first week is tough,” Dismas said.

“Speaking of the ruins-”

“Oh, this isn’t going anywhere good,” Dismas muttered, sloshing a bit of ale at the bottom of his cup around. 

“I asked Katherine about this yesterday and I’ll ask you too. Do you remember that strange sigil we encountered in our last expedition?”

Dismas paused, as though considering the gravity of the question. Sensing that the matter was a sensitive one, he leaned in closer to ensure that no one could eavesdrop.

“I do remember,” Dismas informed him. “Vague. But I remember it being there.”

“What do you remember about it?”

Dismas shook his head. “Not much. Some kind of fuckery.”

“Doesn’t tell me much,” Reynauld grumbled.

“This place is built on fuckery that I don’t understand. It was just another drop in the bucket, really.”

“Not for me,” Reynauld said, furrowing his brow as he saw two peasants glance at his table. “It disturbed me.”

“That whole place disturbs me. Nothing down there is right,” Dismas said. 

“I do wish Katherine had remembered more. I feel like it’s something we can’t ignore.”

“Well, you could always speak to Emilia,” Dismas suggested. “But don’t bring me though,” he added quickly.

“You could be there to back me up,” Reynauld said. 

“I’d like to talk to her as little as possible.”

“What do you have against her?”

Dismas never responded, only chuckling at him and shaking his head in a dismissive fashion. They both paid for their drinks and departed; Dismas going one way, Reynauld another. Reynauld had business on his mind, and even though he could feel the suppressant effects of the alcohol working away on his slowly but surely, he could not yet rest. 

_ I need to have my answers. This is something I cannot ignore. _

_ It’s my duty. Holy duty.  _

Katherine would understand better, but for now he wouldn’t bother Katherine with the issue anymore until he had some answers. For all intents and purposes, he had to carry out this mission alone.

The night was chillier than expected and the wind carried with it the subtle hint of desiccation and malevolence. Though the cloud cover was meagre the moonlight seemed weak and subdued, as though rendered caliginous by some greater, unseen power. As it was not enough to light the way, Reynauld found himself stopping and lighting a shaft of wood for a temporary torch before he pressed on, reaching the keep’s gate and passing through the gatehouse without issue. The guards there were familiar with his imposing form and confident posture, and dared not ask his business without good reason. 

_ There has to be something in the keep’s archives. Something that could help me. Anything. _

The keep was deserted, and Reynauld felt like an intruder as he strode through the darkened stone halls, lit only sporadically by dying torches stuck into rusting bronze sconces. 

_ I thought Emilia had hired more people for this place,  _ Reynauld thought as he walked, quickening his pace as he reminded himself of the urgency of his mission.  _ Looks like she hasn’t gotten around to that yet.  _

He wasn’t even sure where he was going to find her, but determination kept him going and he searched the entire keep, seeing only two other human beings in the fifteen minutes that he was storming from door to door. It wasn’t until he made his way into the keep’s basement, entering the archives, that he found Emilia poring over a few forgotten sheets of vellum stashed away in leather bindings. In spite of the late hour, she was still fully dressed and appeared very focused, as though she had been working for some time. She sat at a crude desk attended by an even cruder wooden chair, and appeared to be the only living being in the dark room crammed with seemingly endless bookshelves. 

“Can I help you, Reynauld?” she asked, looking up at him quizzically as she set her work aside. Her face was lit by a single sputtering candle, and the rest of the room was pitch black. 

“Well, in fact, you can.”

“It’s an odd hour that you come calling,” Emilia noticed. “Something must be wrong.”

“Nothing in particular. Nothing urgent, anyway,” Reynauld reassured her.

“Then why do you come calling?”

“I need some help. I need to...research?”

_ Was that the correct word? She’s glaring at me. Something about her eyebrows does not give me confidence...Light, give me strength, she’s frowning.  _

“Why would you need to do that?” she asked, pushing her work aside slightly as though attempting to avoid distraction. 

“I need answers about something I saw in the ruins...some time ago.”

“What did you see?” Emilia questioned him. “Much of that old realm was cleared out. What is left is rusted and rotted beyond repair.”

“There’s something new. I saw...a mark, upon the wall,” Reynauld said. 

“Are you sure of what you saw?”

“I examined it with torchlight,” he said. “It was dark. Katherine herself said so. It seemed to suck in the very light itself, and disseminate it into nothingness”

“Miss Adelbard is well-informed about such noisome things,” Emilia noted. 

“That is why I trust her.”

“Yet whatever it is, I am afraid I cannot help you with it.”

Reynauld paused for a beat. He saw Emilia’s brow furrow further, as if she knew he would protest.

“My lady-”

“Please. Emilia.”

“Emilia, you have an entire library here at your disposal correct?”

She hesitated.  _ She told me before. She mentioned it. Beneath the very stones I stand on...hundreds of years’ worth of work.  _

“My grandfather was a very busy man in his time,” she said. 

“And he left much of his work to the House of Lancette.”

“Some of it has withered away. The denouement of the passage of time has left many in poor condition,” Emilia reported. “But there remains quite a bit. But it is precious material. It must be curated with utmost caution.”

“I promise I would be cautious,” Reynauld vowed. 

“Your promise is not enough for me, Reynauld,” she hurriedly rejected him. “I fear-”

“Emilia, this is a serious matter.”

“You said yourself it is not urgent.”

“Not urgent, no,” Reynauld stammered. “B-but...it’s of great importance. I know what I saw.”

“I am sure you do,” she said, her gaze hardening. “But I am afraid the consequences of such an action may outweigh its benefits.”

“So that-”

“It’s a no. I cannot let you down there. I can only allow trusted associates in there. And I have precious few of those.”

She returned to her work, whipping out her quill from its attendant inkwell as though he had never been there.   
“Goodnight, Mr. Leplaine. I wish you well.”

Reynauld wanted to protest but couldn’t muster it.  _ There’s no way she will budge. She’s made up her mind. I can tell.  _

He had never experienced defeat like this before. Defeat with honor, yes...but not something so harsh and sudden like this. This form of rejection, as precipitous as it was, was a novel and confusing experience for him. He found himself turning on his heels and walking off, trying to think over a new approach. But he was stopped.

“Reynauld?”

He turned around again, just enough so he could see her. She had not pushed her work aside but was watching him as he was leaving.

“Don’t trouble yourself too much with this,” Emilia assuaged him. 

Reynauld frowned.

“I can’t do that. I know something is amiss,” he protested. 

“It may feel that way sometimes,” she said. “But that is what this place is.”

“You think so?”

“It’s just another drop in the bucket,” she told him. “This is a land of horrors. I was hoping you’d be used to it by now.”

He shrugged.  _ I disagree, but you will agree to disagree. There’s no point in continuing this. _

“Goodnight, Emilia.”

“Reynauld.”

And so he left. But he was far from finished, no; defeat was not retreat, only a temporary setback.  _ Tomorrow is a new day.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to anyone who was waiting for this update. I have been spending time getting ahead and working on a third 10-chapter piece, so I have been writing - but not publishing. Hopefully I will be more regular from here on out. Thank you for understanding.


	4. Thieves in the Night

“She denied you?”

The tavern was almost completely empty, with the exception of three farmers setting silently in the right hand corner next to the bar. They had their drinks but were unnervingly silent, and sipped hesitantly at their drinks without even looking at one another. The bartender was nowhere to be seen.

“She said it was too risky,” Reynauld replied. He and Dismas had picked their usual corner table, by the window, where they could see the entire tavern. But there wasn’t a whole lot to see, at least not today. Lightning flashed and thunder roared, and another wave of rain lashed the window with unrelenting fury.

“Risky? It’s a bunch of damn books,” Dismas cursed.

“Apparently most of them are in bad shape. The ravages of time,” Reynauld said.

“Seems fishy,” Dismas said.

“I don’t know, Dismas,” Reynauld countered, taking a sip of his drink and relishing the sweet taste, a relief for his parched throat. “The lady loves her library. And a lot of that stuff belonged to her grandfather. I’m sure she has some sentimental attachment to it.”

“I might remind you that she despises her grandfather.”

“Well, so does everyone,” Reynauld countered again.

“And?”

“They’re still related by blood. They are still family.”

“A fact I am sure she doesn’t appreciate,” Dismas said.

“Well, I can understand her being protective,” Reynauld brushed him off. “But that doesn’t mean I like it.”

“You’re quite determined about all of this,” Dismas noted. Another flash of lightning, and another rumble of thunder. The rain was not letting up, and the bartender was nowhere in sight. Reynauld glanced down at his half-empty mug with a hint of concern.

“Do you not see it the way I do, Dismas?”

“I just wonder if it’s...what do they call it? Red herring?”

“I would disagree with that,” Reynauld said.

“Just thinking out loud. You and I both know fuck-all about what it really is, so we’re just guessing,” Dismas replied.

“That’s why I’m trying to get into that library. I know I have to.”

Dismas sighed and finished his drink with a mighty gulp. He brushed the residual foam off onto the coat of his jacket, and belched contentedly.

“You look like you’re thinking.”

“I’m always thinking,” Reynauld said. “The difference is, this time I’m thinking about how to _break_ a rule, not how to uphold it.”

“Hah, when you put it that way, you almost sound like you’re planning a good time for once,” Dismas chortled.

“Interested?”

Dismas smirked and tapped the exposed hilt of his dirk devilishly.

“What do you take me for, a lawman?”

“Quite the opposite.”

“I’ve kind of missed the thrill of lawbreaking,” Dismas said. “Everything here has been so...righteous.”

“So are you in?”

Dismas grinned broadly.

“How could I miss out?”

* * *

 

Reynauld paused as he looked up at the imposing facade of the keep standing before him. Normally, it was a locus of power and an area of comfort, a place that he revered more than feared. But even though he could not see a single light from any of the keep’s windows, nevertheless he could feel his stomach churning and his fingers tingling as they moved forward.

“You sure this is the best way, Dismas?”

“Of course. We come in here all the time. They won’t assume anything is amiss.” Dismas seemed ready to go about his business. Reynauld, for his part, was not so certain.

“Yeah, but walking right through the front door?”

“What do you think they’ll make of it? The guards know our faces,” Dismas countered.

“What about Emilia?”

“Well...we’ll avoid her,” Dismas promised, and smiled wanly at Reynauld as a means of assuaging his concerns. Reynauld was unmoved but felt as though he had no choice but to follow the highwayman through the front doors and into the confines of the keep.

The entry hall was, unsurprisingly, devoid of life. The torches in their sconces were lit but not a soul could be seen as the two of them stalked the halls, keeping their footsteps light to avoid any attention. Reynauld knew the way; after all, he had been there only two days ago. It wouldn’t take them long to get down there, but he had no idea how long they might remain down there.

_Until we find what we’re looking for. That could be ages. And presuming that Emilia is not down there again…_

He rushed to banish all negative thoughts from his mind as they moved onwards, sticking close to the walls. Dismas was in front, keeping an open ear for footsteps or conversation, but he heard nothing.

_It’s like the whole place is just...dead._ Reynauld banished that thought, too. He didn’t want to consider the possibility of such a thing, no matter how remote. He had enough dealings with the dead for an entire lifetime already, and he knew that he was far from done.

“Where to, Reynauld?”

“The right. Stick to the wall. We’re close.”

Dismas did as he was told, slinking like a thief in the night through the narrow stone corridors. It wasn’t long before they reached a passage that Reynauld recognized.

“Here, and down a flight of stairs,” he told Dismas.

“Alright. Watch your back, big man.”

“Make sure the place is empty before you go in.”

Down the staircase they went. Without a torch, it was nearly impossible to see where they walked. Each step brought them closer and closer to their destination, though; that, Reynauld was certain of.

_There are no torches down here, that’s a good sign._

They came to the door. Reynauld had knocked on it the first time. Now, Dismas simply slid it open, taking care to open it gently and prevent any noise. The two of them slipped inside, and after ensuring that they were alone, managed to find a torch and light it.

The archive section of the keep was a labyrinthine mess of disorganized bookcases, their shelves decorated with scattered sheaves of paper and leather-bound tomes of an antediluvian nature. Here and there Reynauld could even see papyrus scrolls contained in glass-faced cases, ancient in age and certainly nefarious in content. The room, though its ceiling was low and in some places was scuffed with residue from smoke, stretched on for a few hundred feet, all the way back to a featureless stone wall.

“I’ve never seen a place quite like this,” Dismas mused.

“Never seen so many words in one place?”

“Oh, not what I meant. I’ve been some to some impressive archives, friend,” said Dismas, waving the torch around as he scanned his surroundings. “But they all loved their splendor and their decor. Not this one.”

Dismas smacked his lips and led Reynauld into the maze without further ado. The two had no idea where to start, but they had to begin somewhere, so they picked a random shelf and begin poring over its contents.

_Much of these texts are incredibly old. Perhaps centuries for some of them._ He was afraid of touching any, lest they crumble to dust at the slightest rub. He wondered how Emilia could handle such literature with confidence.

“Reynauld, do you have any idea what you’re looking for?” Dismas asked after a few minutes of vain searching.

“Anything,” Reynauld replied.

“Well, that’s helpful,” Dismas snorted.

“Have to start somewhere. I wish I could tell you more.”

“A man could spend a month in here and never read it all,” Dismas complained. “We have a few hours, at best.”

“We’ll find something. Trust me.”

Dismas grumbled but continued leading the way. As they progressed, the shelves appeared emptier, but their contents appeared older and far more valuable. Books with gold leaf scrawled along their bindings, ancient texts with odd symbols scrawled upon them, and artifacts, sculptures and trinkets never meant for amusement or adornment, but for some darker purpose. The farther they progressed, the more and more Reynauld was disturbed.

_Light give me strength. I will need as much as I can get._

“There’s no order to this place,” Dismas complained, waving the torch around.

“There has to be some way.”

“Well, I’m not seeing anything. Are you?”

“Give me time, Dismas.”

“Time is not on our side,” Dismas reminded him, but he ignored the continuing complaints. _There has to be something to give us a clue. How else would Emilia find anything down here?_

He knew he could be wrong. The archives, as far as he was aware, were designed and populated by her own grandfather, and he had a penchant for extravagance as well as an arbitrary sense of order. It was entirely likely that in his designs of the archive, he included no system for locating or organizing individual artifacts. Such a thing would not be out of character for him.

“We may do better if we separate,” Dismas suggested.

“I’ll need a torch,” said Reynauld.

Dismas stumbled around until he found the required ingredients. He hastily lit the torch and handed it to Reynauld.

“The seconds are ticking away,” Dismas reminded him, his voice grating.

“I promise you, we will get something out of this.”

Dismas grunted but said nothing, turning away and melding once more into the shadows.

_I almost envy him. He makes it look so effortless._ Reynauld stalked away, down a different hall, seeking something, _anything_ that could be interpreted as an identifier. A close inspection of one of the aging bookcases revealed a faded number that had been etched quite artfully into the side of the structure. But upon examining one of the other bookcases, he could not discern a pattern from any of them.

_The first reads “6”. The second reads “44”. And this one next to it…”46”. There is no order, or sense to any of it. Not that I can tell._

But he could discern some form of order, after another examination. To his right, the bookcases bore single digits as well as double digits in the teens; to his left, the bookcases bore numbers in the 40s and 50s, and assumedly beyond that. But it still made no sense. What were the numbers referring to? Reynauld knew he could not try to guess their intentions without a closer examination, and so he took to the texts themselves for some kind of hint.

The first few books he leafed through gave him nothing of interest. Texts on botany, of strange weeds and dangerous herbs that could be found only in the farthest reaches of the known world...a diagram of some ancient temple, long lost by history and rediscovered only through painstaking digging and struggle…

But he found one. He began to connect the dots.

A queer little book, its cover featureless beyond a few scratches in the leather, yielded something of note. Out of curiosity, Reynauld flipped to the very first page, looking for an indicator in the title or in the book’s _tabula_ that could help him. But he found instead some scribbled words, a note written by a man who was almost certainly long dead, and a date.

Then he knew.

_The numbers are meant to accord to dates. Of course...of course it’s like that._

And of course, it made little sense initially - why not scrawl the actual date that the row was commissioned on the bookcase, instead of what appeared to be an arbitrary number? But Reynauld started to come to terms with the fact that he lacked understanding of the curious, noisome ways in which Remus Lancette had worked. The numbers on each case corresponded to the year that the case was installed within the archive, relative to the date that Remus had begun to collect artifacts and literature. The row in which he stood, which had “16” etched into the bookcase’s side, contained items that were collected and archived in the 16th year of the private library’s existence.

_Light guide me. We may find it yet. But first, I must find Dismas._

He did not need to look far. Dismas held in his hand the only other light in the room, and so Reynauld tracked him down quickly and accosted him as quickly as possible.

“You think you can make sense of this?” Dismas asked, glancing up at the nearest bookshelf and frowning at its unnatural numbering.

“I think so,” Reynauld said. “Do you see it?”

Reynauld hastily explained his reasoning. Dismas continued frowning, and his brow furrowed fiercely, but he relented when Reynauld finished.

“I suppose I can,” Dismas said.

“Then we must hurry. If I’m right, we may be on to something,” said Reynauld.

“Yet you have no idea how old what we we’re looking for is,” Dismas complained, but Reynauld was already off. He had something, and he was going to run with it.

_The Light will guide me. It always has._ Torch in hand, Reynauld began leaving through various books and documents, seeking anything that might give him another clue. They had already made progress; it was only a matter of minutes, perhaps, before they would make more. But it was not Reynauld who made the next step, but Dismas.

“Reynauld?”

The voice was barely a whisper, but in the dead, dusty air of the archive it carried like a wave through a still pond. Reynauld made his way over to Dismas at the case labeled “23”. He held four or five sheets of ancient, crumbling paper in a trembling hand.

“What is it?”

“This could lead us somewhere,” Dismas said. “The text is...difficult to read.”

“But you can read it?”

“I found key words,” Dismas reported, handing the papers to Reynauld. “It speaks of death. Death, darkness, and rot.”

Reynauld’s blood chilled a bit involuntarily. _Uncanny. Might be what we’re seeking._

“Let me read through the text,” Reynauld asked. “Could you hold the light, please?”

Dismas did as requested, and for a minute or two they stood together in the darkness of the quiet, lifeless archive. Every creak of the wood ceiling and every droplet of water winding its way down the stone wall and onto the floor gave Reynauld pause, but they were left in peace as he read.

 

 

“ _Concerns with the state of the south wing of the second sub-level have reached my ears of late, but there is little I can to do assuage the courtiers who have raised complaints about the dreadful status of the architecture there. I have been so preoccupied with Remus’ latest ventures in the lower levels that I am afraid I have neglected other articles of my duties. I blame myself, yet I know I am not entirely at fault - there is more to the story than immediately meets the eye. I have lost labourers; some, perhaps, have quit their posts and fled to other countrysides, no doubt frightened or repulsed by the stories that pour forth from every leaking aperture of this estate. Others have passed away, as a recent bout of consumption has made its way through our barony and I fear that the chirurgeons could only do so much to staunch the flow of infection. And so it is that I face such a daunting task, deprived of necessities I once had at my beck and call, and I must draw up a list of the resources which my station requires now, for your review and-”_

 

 

The text went on and as he read, Reynauld began to grow frustrated. This appeared to be the scrawlings of a man in the service of the Lancettes, some time ago.

_He refers to Remus Lancette. He must have been alive at this point. I need more about him, though, not about this damned estate-_

But Reynauld’s thinning patience paid dividends as he went on to the next entry. He read carefully, making sure that he absorbed every word and understood the noisome sentences before him.

 

 

_“I wish to pass complaints on to you, from some of our most recent guests. The party hailing from the high court of Latium reported that while they felt that they were most welcome here and quite appreciated the hospitality granted to them from you and your courtiers, they had some pertinent problems come to light during their stay. In particular, your most unusual acquaintances from across the water troubled a great number of their party, especially the young women traveling with the Latium counts. Their unnatural customs and their propensity for solitude and pretence by way of hood and mask had disturbed many of your guests during their customary visit. I understand that the presence of your distant acquaintances is most important for your studies, but I would be neglecting my duties if I did not pass these concerns on. Some of the Latium men noted an odd smell about your acquaintances as well, a scent they described as “the odor of the grave”. While I cannot substantiate what must be ‘tall tales’ of a sort, I must pass on these grievances to your courtiers and let you know of this. You know this is not the first time such grievances have been voiced, either. This has been ongoing for two years, sir. I understand the importance of your work, but please, consider-”_

 

 

Reynauld skipped down and found a date. He knew where he had to go next.

“Where are you going?”

“Row 21,” Reynauld replied, shuffling back a few steps. “Two years before this.”

Row 21 was mercifully more devoid of content, making his search easier. He only needed two or three minutes before he found what appeared to be a crumbling journal, with a familiar set of letters marked into the cover.

_Remus Lancette. His personal writings._

Each page was a new entry. Brief they were, but yet still seemingly bloated with information. Daily reports on events concerning his noble seat, reports on the progress of various experiments, and...far darker things.

It wasn’t long before Reynauld came upon the revelation.

 

 

_“15th of September, 1619._

 

_I have completed the deeds as I have laid out in the past weeks. With my guests from the Cedar-lands from across the water comfortable in their new abode, I took it upon myself to slit their throats in the night and prepare their bodies myself. It is a pity; they were charismatic and sociable men, well-versed in the ways of shadow and sigil and eternally seeking to achieve cognizance with regards to the unknown in our world. It is a shame that this first step must be so brutal and cruel. But there lies more ahead, for I know now that beyond death lies a veneer of life accessible now by my own hands and means. The past two years’ worth of experiments have granted me the tools and the knowledge to bring these men into my fold._ _  
_   
_The bodies are prepared. Even now, they lie perfectly preserved upon the mortuary tables, the chemicals mixed and the sigils painted in the bloods required - raven, pig, and the purest of this world, that of human. My own blood will suffice. A part of me will be with them as they walk on this earth once more, remanded to life like a debtor remanded to his umbrous prison cell. And I will lead them on so that more life will rise from the dust in their footsteps. May this venture be successful.”_

 

“What does it say?”

Reynauld closed the journal wordlessly at first, as though the words were still rolling around in his head, waiting to be pieced together in coherent form.

“Reynauld?”

Reynauld placed the journal back in its place and turned back to Dismas. He knew that his face was drawn into a grimace, for Dismas did the same in response.

“I know what stalks the ruins of the estate,” said Reynauld, barely whispering. “It is the blood of the Lancettes themselves.”

“What do you mean?”

“They created these demons. They created that shadow on the wall. They created life-”

Reynauld was interrupted by the sound of the archive door slamming open, its impact upon the stone wall reverberating through every nook and cranny of the dingy library. The sound was followed by footsteps trampling upon the cobblestones, and what sounded like armor clanking and chainmail rattling. The two of them stood no chance; torches in hand, they were easy to spot from afar, and could do nothing but stand in the open like lambs penned in by wolves as the guardsmen closed in around them, cutting off any avenue of escape.

_Not that we had any thoughts of escape. We’ve found what we’re looking for. Our work here is done._

Nearly a dozen guardsmen surrounded the pair. Reynauld set his torch down on the ground gently and raised his hands, as if to signal his innocent intentions. The guards held their weapons at bay, but nonetheless girded the two with their shields and bodies, hemming them in and preventing any manner of departure. There was quiet for a few painful moments before a terribly familiar voice cut through the veil of silence.

“I knew we had thieves in the night. But I never expected it to be the two of you.”

A couple of the guardsmen parted and Emilia Lancette strode into view, backed by a few other guardsmen. She wore nightclothes and a cloak, and nothing more; evidently, she had been occupied with sleep when someone had hastily roused her and summoned her.

“Well, being a highwayman and all-”

“You have the right to remain silent,” Emilia interrupted Dismas quickly. “And I suggest you both remain so.”

Reynauld kept his lips shut. Unlike Dismas, he knew when to hold his tongue. Now seemed like a good time for that.

“I admit I am disappointed. There is a reason for this, I am sure, but I have no interest in it for now,” Emilia said, and her stern tone was accompanied by a glare that could pierce castle-forged steel. She turned to her guardsmen behind her.

“I want them locked up here for the night. Comfortable cells, please.”

She turned back to the pair.

“I will speak with both of you tomorrow. I want answers. And they had better be good ones.”

Reynauld did not resist as two guardsmen grabbed him and hauled him off, Dismas on his tail. He had his answers, along with many more questions. He intended to attend to both, first thing tomorrow.


	5. Grandfather's Ghosts

Reynauld did not spend long in chains. At first light a few gruff, tired-looking men came for him and woke him up with a rough shake to the shoulders. He dressed hastily and followed them, glad to be liberated once more. But he knew what would be coming up, and for some reason he dreaded it.

_ She’ll interrogate me, for sure. That I can handle. But I must interrogate her, and that will be the trick.  _ He swallowed his fear as he was led towards the keep’s main hall, and did his best to look composed as the gaolers led him in. On his way in, he passed a strange man who was on his way out, and appeared to be in quite a foul mood. The stranger was well-dressed, looking almost regal in spotless linen garments and a finely-crafted set of gilded greaves, and he appeared dissatisfied and dejected. Reynauld did not call out to him or make eye contact; whoever this stranger was, he had no interest in him. 

Emilia was sitting at her table as usual, with each entrance to the main hall flanked by armored guards. For the first time Reynauld noticed that the windows on the right side of the room had been cleaned, the dirt and grease that had once caked the interior removed through painstaking manual labor. Emilia seemed to be frazzled; her hair was disheveled, she was whispering something in a distressed tone under her breath, and she was scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment. Reynauld had to clear his throat to get her attention.

“Reynauld,” she said when she looked up. Her tone was cold and unwelcoming. Reynauld found that a shiver was coursing down his spine in spite of himself.

“Emilia,” he replied.

“You have some things to answer for,” Emilia said. 

“I understand.”

Emilia nodded, and set her work aside. It was clear that she wished to devote all of her attention to him, but her next move surprised him.

“Clear the room for us,” she ordered. The guards shuffled out of the room, closing and setting the doors behind them as they exited. Now Reynauld was genuinely uncomfortable, and in an attempt to conceal his perturbation he clasped his hands together in front of him and straightened his back.

“I know you think you have your reasons,” Emilia began. “But trust me. I told you to stay out of there for your own good.”

“And I disagree,” Reynauld returned.

“As I figured you would,” she sighed. “You’re no pushover.”

“What did you expect?”

“I expect you to follow my orders. I am your employer. Need I remind you?”

“Not at all,” Reynauld promised. “But sometimes, orders must be disobeyed.”

“Reynauld,” Emilia said, her voice softening a little. “I kept you out of there to protect you.”

Reynauld hesitated.  _ Is she telling the truth?  _ Her eyes did not disclose any signs of dishonesty; she was telling the full truth.

“You think you need to protect me?” Reynauld asked. “I think I should be the one protecting-”

“No, Reynauld,” Emilia corrected him, and then backtracked. “I mean, yes. But this is different.”

“I want you to be honest with me,” Reynauld demanded. Without anyone else in the room, he felt more comfortable speaking to her in such a way. She hesitated, and met his eyes, as though attempting to descry something in his expression that would betray something. But he had nothing to betray. 

“Much of what is contained in that archive was written or obtained by my grandfather. I’m sure you’ve been aware of that by now,” Emilia said.    
“I have.”

“What did you read down there?” she demanded.

_ There’s no point in lying to her. That would just be...immoral. Tell the truth.  _

“Journals. Only journals,” he said.

“Whose?”

“Your grandfather’s. And another’s. But I was looking for your grandfather’s, in particular,” he reported.

“You were seeking something,” she said.    
“Not exactly,” he corrected. “I suppose you could say I was seeking knowledge.”

“That in and of itself can be dangerous,” she warned him. 

“I want answers about something,” he said. 

“I know that,” she said. 

“You- wait, what?”

“Katherine has mentioned it to me,” Emilia admitted. “Offhandedly, of course. She was dodgy about it. But I suspected something as up.”

Reynauld had nothing to say to that. On the one hand, he was glad that Emilia at least had some idea about what was going on. On the other hand, he felt...betrayed?  _ No, not quite. But I thought Katherine knew to hold her peace. Maybe she thought she was doing the right thing? And maybe she was… _

“What did she say?”

“Not too much information,” Emilia told him. “But I know you and Dismas have been hunting something.”

“You know about the shadow on the wall?”

Emilia nodded, her expression becoming as somber as a dead woman’s.

“There’s something in the ruins. My grandfather had a part in it,” she said, her voice noticeably quieter.  _ Worried about eavesdroppers, perhaps. Or...fear of the thing itself.  _

“I read enough of his journal to figure it out. He murdered men and resurrected them for his own work,” he said. 

“It is something my grandfather would have done,” Emilia said. 

“He  _ did  _ do it. He was damn near proud of it, too,” Reynauld snarled. “I read his own handwriting. He recorded his own deeds, thinking that posterity would…”

_ Would do what? Idolize him? Respect him? Fear him, more like...fear, and loathe, and tremble at his name… _

“I don’t need you to lecture me about my grandfather and his ghosts,” Emilia said sternly. “I know he did terrible things.”

“Well this is more than I have ever known,” he said. 

“This is new to me too. I knew that the undead in the ruins came from somewhere. But-”

“You never knew he started it, did you?”

“I never knew he brought necromancers to life. No.”

Hearing it from Emilia’s mouth, admitting her lack of knowledge and his success, gave him some perverted sense of pride. He banished it almost immediately, troubled by the sudden surge of ego he had suffered.

_ There is no place for that in my body. None.  _

“I assume you read it?”

“Dismas did not bother to hide what you two were looking for. I have read through it,” Emilia informed him. “I know what you know. And more.”

“Then perhaps you can be of help,” Reynauld suggested. 

“I suppose there’s no point in hiding it from you anymore,” Emilia sighed, furrowing her brow in vexation. “I figured it would come to this.”

“You should not have hid anything from me in the first place,” he said. 

“I was afraid of what you would find.”

“There are things here that we _ should _ be afraid of,” Reynauld insisted. “That doesn’t mean we must hide from them and reject the mere thought of them.”

That seemed to get her thinking. Her silence indicated that she wasn’t sure how to reply, and Reynauld waited patiently for her to collect herself.

“You’re right,” she said. 

“We’re at an advantage, now. We know more about the threat we face,” he said. 

“A bit more. But much has changed since then. It has been almost a century since my grandfather first brought those men back to life,” she reminded him. 

“And I assume they’ve been raising the dead ever since,” he said. 

“Likely.”

_ Regardless of whether or not they worked under his auspices, what they did was unholy and immoral. I hope you agree with me on that, Emilia Lancette, or we may find working together in the future difficult.  _

“So what now?” Reynauld asked. 

“I have more digging to do. But you and I both know enough to realize that there is a dire threat that we face,” Emilia said. 

“You believe these creatures, these...necromancers, they still live?” Reynauld hated to use that word. It felt  _ filthy  _ just rolling off of his tongue, and he shuddered to think about what they might look like. Horrendous, unholy images were conjured up by his brain immediately, and he struggled to banish them.

“I have no reason to believe otherwise,” she replied. 

“Then we have work to do.”

“You and your friend, I think, are the most suited for it. Dismas knows, too, and that makes him a good candidate to help you,” she suggested. 

_ He’ll be thrilled.  _

Emilia shouted an order to one of the guards and the door behind Reynauld swung open again. The guard stepped in, strode past Reynauld, and stood by Emilia while she whispered something into his ear. He vanished once more, leaving by the same door that he had entered.

“I’m having him bring Dismas to us,” Emilia informed him as they waited. It was only a few minutes before the highwayman was led in. He was quiet, unusually so, and even when standing at Reynauld’s side he said nothing. He looked fatigued, as though he had not slept a single moment.

“Dismas,” she greeted him. 

“Lady Lancette,” he replied, his voice hollow and tired. 

“Please, Emilia,” she insisted.  _ I’m sure that grows tedious _ , Reynauld thought.

“It feels wrong,” Dismas protested, but before he could continue Emilia cut him off and continued on to business.

“I have come to terms with what you and Reynauld did and recognize your reasoning. And I have come to grips with the same thing you have been concerned about. It seems the evil that haunts the ruined estate runs deeper than we thought,”

“You read the journal?” Dismas asked.

“All of it. He speaks at length about what he did, and...well, the tale can be told in short form, I suppose.”

Emilia went on to summarize the wealth of journal entries that she had read. It was apparent that Remus, in a moment of clarity about the nature of his work, invited some notable occultist figures from across the great sea to his estate, seemingly with the intent of collaborating them on his experiments on dead creatures. Naturally, Remus Lancette was not keen on working with someone who saw him as an equal; a few months into the project, he murdered his new collaborators and proceeded to use  _ them  _ as test subjects, raising them back to life as slaves. Bound to Remus’ will by some kind of strange ritual whose details were not mentioned in the text, the revived occultists began their own necromantic work, under the auspices of an increasingly unstable Remus. 

“And that’s it?”

“My grandfather did not mention them again after that. He died only a few years after these entries end,” Emilia said. 

“The man did not live an exceptionally blessed life,” Reynauld muttered. 

“Well, I knew that. But this...this is another level of bastardry,” Dismas cursed.

“And I believe they still haunt the old estate. Perhaps dormant, but clearly still working,” said Emilia. 

“Well, what would you have us do?” Dismas asked. “Me and Reynauld, I mean.”

“Why, I think you two are perfectly suited to seek these creatures out,” “There can be more learned about them, perhaps?”

“Sounds pleasant,” Dismas said sarcastically.

“Dismas will go with me on an expedition,” Reynauld said. “We will keep a low profile and see what more we can find.”

“Seek out the shadow you saw on the wall. See where it leads you,” Emilia told them. “But be careful. The old ruins run deeper than you might imagine.”

She dismissed them immediately after that. The guards reentered the room and escorted the two of them out of the keep. Clearly, Emilia could not fully trust them yet, and was still concerned about their breach of privacy.

“To be honest, I was expecting worse,” Dismas chortled, seemingly happy to be free once more. 

“You thought she was going to keep you locked up?”

“Or worse,” Dismas said. “Torture. Mutilation.”

_ You know as well as I do that she relies upon us. That would get her nowhere.  _

The guards escorted them to the keep’s gate but did not follow them past that. The morning was unusually pleasant; sunlight filtered through straggly strands of light white cloud, and a gentle autumn breeze scattered yellow and brown leaves, as crisp as the air, around their feet. Although the temperature was cooler than desirable, Reynauld could not complain. He, too, felt relieved to be free.

“What do you make of it all?” Dismas asked, interrupting him from his reverie. 

“Hmmm?”

“All of this,” Dismas said. “The shadow on the wall. These journals. The undead in the ruins.”

“Why, I think-”

Reynauld halted.  _ It will not be that simple, Reynauld. Nothing in this place is ever simple, or comprehended by ia casual description. _

“You think?”

“I did,” he replied. “But I...I do not know what to make of it, really.”

Dismas visibly frowned, seemingly unsettled.

“Well, I wondered,” Dismas said, when Reynauld held his peace. “Perhaps much of what was written there was just...I dunno, made up? Exaggerated?”

“What makes you think that?” Reynauld inquired.

“It just sounds so...horrid.”

“This is a horrid place, Dismas,” Reynauld reminded him. “These are no child’s stories. They are our present, and are doomed to be our future if we do not do something.”

“Well, when you put it that way, mate…”

“I never lie to you, Dismas,” Reynauld said. 

“I’ve lied to you.”

“Only if it meant you might win more at poker.”

Dismas swore at him and then laughed gaudily. He, too, was in high spirits. They both were. But something was eating away at Reynauld, gnawing at his mind and keeping him hesitant. 

_ There is something in the ruins. Something that has not yet shown itself. Why? What is it waiting for? Where is it? And will we find it?  _

_ Too many questions, Reynauld. Don’t frenzy yourself. Breathe, and relax. The Light will guide your way.  _

_ It always does.  _


	6. Shadows Taking Form

_ There is something about this gate.  _

Reynauld stood in front of the ancient wrought-iron gate, rusted and crumbling, as it creaked on its aged hinges as if protesting its very existence. The gate, which parted a long, low stone wall that was in an equivalent state of disrepair, was the divider between the current polity of Tauros and that cancerous, abandoned domain that had once been the Lancette estate. The stone path that had once wound from the shoreline all the way up to the precipice of the moor had long been at the mercy of weeds and sawgrass, and could no longer be descried beyond a few upturned stones laying in the mud. 

_ Something about these gates is...disheartening? Or perhaps not disheartening, but...they place a certain burden on your mind.  _

There was something imperceptible about them. The first time Reynauld had shuffled off onto the moor, with Dismas and Katherine at his tail, he had been too excited and anxious to notice anything. But now, he could tell that something about them gave him pause, again, something imperceptible. It was almost as though he were passing from a world of familiarity and sanity into a realm of ghastly and inconceivable creations, fantasy made reality. 

_ And this gate, here, is the doorway. From one world to another.  _

“Something wrong, Reynauld?”

Herod’s voice pierced his ponderings and brought him back to reality. The occultist, clutching a quarterstaff in one hand and an odd-looking book in the other, looked into Reynauld’s eyes as though attempting to peer into his mind. 

“No, no,” Reynauld said, shaking his head and therefore shaking such outlandish thoughts from his head. “I’m good. Just resting.”

“Better pick up the pace, old man, or we’re leaving you behind in the dust,” Dismas cackled, stepping past Reynauld and clapping him on the shoulder. 

“I’m hardly older than you, Dismas,” Reynauld reminded him. “Be careful who you call a-”

“Boys, boys. Come now,” a female voice chimed in. “There’s plenty of fighting ahead for the both of you.”

“I hate to tell you, Audrey,” Dismas said, “but we’re not going to be looking for a fight.”

“Well, that is a shame,” Audrey Vance sighed. “A little bloodshed does not go amiss.”

“Normally, I’d agree with you, but the things we’ll be seeing don’t have much blood left,” said Dismas. 

“Only bones,” Reynauld muttered. He struggled to keep pace with the group as they attempted to follow the winding path up the moor. His armor, though it could turn aside even a sharp blade and resist the strongest of blows, weighed him down to the point where he was struggling to even walk. It was always like that on the journey up. 

_ An uphill battle, quite literally _ , he thought as he gasped for breath and jogged a few paces to catch up with Dismas. 

“You’d do better without armor,” Dismas informed him. 

“This breastplate saved my life before. I would be a fool to part with it,” Reynauld replied.

“Got into any good scraps?”

“Not scraps. Battles,” said Reynauld. 

“What’s the difference?”

_ Wouldn’t you like to know?  _ Reynauld thought. For a brief moment, his mind was swept back into reverie, and he found himself back on the battlefields of Sham, raising above his head a banner that had once brought him comfort, shouting to the men around him to  _ Hold fast, raise your shields, do not give!  _ But the reverie was broken quickly.

“No need for armor when you’ve got the legs of Dismas,” Audrey said. 

“You’re mocking me,” Dismas growled.    
“You make yourself  _ such  _ an easy target,” Audrey chuckled, and tapped Dismas tauntingly on the shoulder. He did not reply to her, unwilling to be goaded into her trap. 

“It seems like such a small building,” Herod observed, and Reynauld noticed that he was staring at the estate’s manor, perched high up on the moorcliff overlooking the foaming grey waters below. Though they were still a mile away from it, it loomed menacingly above them, its shattered towers and crumbling walls forbidding and enticing in equal measure. 

“The manor itself is not too large,” Reynauld said. “A single man can walk through it all in an hour.”

“There is more buried beneath, I assume,” Herod ventured. 

“More than you can imagine,” Reynauld said. 

“My imagination is vast, crusader,” Herod replied. And he said no more.

_ Stoic type _ , Reynauld thought.  _ Honestly, he might be a nice break from Dismas and the grave robber.  _ The two were bantering with each other still up ahead, and Dismas hurled incendiary curses at her as she continued to prod him.

“How far have we gotten?” Herod asked. 

“Well, if Dismas has been mapping the place correctly...not far,” Reynauld admitted.

“There is much left untouched. The Lancettes have lived here for centuries. They have dug deep. Too deep for their own good,” Herod said. 

“Well, maybe. We don’t know.”

“I know. I can feel it.”

Reynauld was not about to ask him what he could feel, or how he could feel it.  _ To be honest, I’m not even sure why you’re here. What about you is so special, besides the fact that you have a penchant for reading?  _

Reynauld had to admit, he approved of Herod’s stolid tendencies and straight nature, but something about the man’s aura disturbed him. The books he carried, often antiquated and written in strange languages, bore markings on their covers that Reynauld knew were evil in nature. The man also claimed to control powers that stemmed from some well of  _ eldritch  _ force, something Reynauld could not trust. But Emilia had accepted him into their ranks, and even suggested that he attend their expedition, and so he could only withhold his thoughts and watch the newcomer carefully. 

They approached the manor but stepped off of the path, with Dismas in the lead. He had been here several times before, and knew the trail as well as Reynauld.

_ We have never been through the front doors of that place _ , Reynauld realized, glancing over his right shoulder at the once-opulent manor.  _ Maybe one day, it will be restored.  _

“Dismas, did you bring the map?” Reynauld called up to him.

“Of course, of course,” Dismas replied. 

“We’re not going to try to find our way through this place based on memory.”

“When have we ever?” Dismas asked.

“The one time you forgot the map.”

“Right...yes.”

Audrey chuckled and Dismas muttered something vulgar to her. Reynauld wondered for a moment whether it was a good idea to bring the two of them along together. 

“Katherine should’ve been mapping, to be honest,” Dismas said, as he unfurled his own map and attempted to make sense of it. “I’m...well, my handwriting is shit.”

“A little late to be mentioning that,” Audrey grumbled.

“It’s fine. We’ll make do,” Reynauld reassured them.

“Why isn’t she here with us?” Dismas asked. “Why’d we have to bring  _ another  _ thief?” 

Audrey chuckled mockingly at him but Reynauld ignored the jibes they traded.

“She’s...still recovering.”

“Her wounds are fine,” Dismas said.

“It’s the fear. The mind, not the body.”

“Ah.”

They approached the entrance within a few minutes. Buried into a hillock in the moor, the eastern servants’ entrance (at least, that was how it was demarcated in the old blueprints of the place) was the door they had always used to enter the old ruins. It provided easy access to the subterranean levels and wasn’t as risky as entering through the decrepit manor, whose floors were likely rotting away to the point of being inaccessible. 

Reynauld pulled out a torch and, with Dismas’ assistance, lit it before they stepped into the labyrinth. It would be their only light down there, and as Reynauld closed the door behind them, the party was bathed in darkness. The torch was their beacon, their only guide in a world where light had long ceased to exist.

“Watch your step down here,” Reynauld warned the newcomers. “These halls are not friendly to the unacquainted.”

“Let us lead,” Dismas insisted. “I have the map, anyway.”

“If you say so, hero,” Audrey teased, but she took her place behind the two of them and let the highwayman and his brother-in-arms lead them on through the gloom. While the servants’ entrance was fairly deserted and had long ago been looted of any valuables and items by foragers from the countryside, the vast expanse of stonework beneath it had been left in fairly pristine condition. 

_ Few, if any of the locals have dared to venture down there. Those who did rarely returned.  _

The villagers of Tauros had some faint idea of what stalked the halls of the abandoned estate, but the myths and exaggerated tales spread around by the lucky few who had returned from the ruins alive had led to confusion and ignorance among many. There were some who believed that the hallways were empty of fiends, and that those who never returned had ended up dazed and eventually lost in the labyrinth. Others still thought that the ruins were populated by demonic beasts and terrible succubi, seeking human blood and flesh to sate their ravenous appetites. 

_ Neither are particularly close to the truth. That’s what decades of tall tales does to people, I suppose.  _

“Tell me, Mr. Leplaine-”

“You can call me Reynauld,” Reynauld interrupted the occultist. 

“Reynauld,” Herod finished, unfazed. “What are we searching for, exactly?”

“She didn’t tell you?”

“Well, when I met with her this morning, she wasn’t all...there. She seemed tired, as though she had been up all night,” said Herod.

Audrey stifled a giggle. Something about that had amused her.  _ No doubt, she finds the suffering of others entertaining. Kind of like Dismas, here… _

“We’re looking for a strange sort of marking. The kind that normal, honest folk don’t tend to seek out,” said Reynauld. 

“Well, we must be dishonest, indecent folk then,” Dismas snickered. 

“Speak for yourself, Dismas,” Reynauld replied.

“Can you describe its character to me?” Herod asked. 

Reynauld struggled for a bit, with Dismas’ assistance, to describe in detail the shape and properties of the strange, semicircular marking that had so perturbed them. It almost reminded him of a crown, with jagged spikes driven through the rim. The sigil itself was painted on the wall, but had appeared to hover there, almost like a shadow projected from some unforeseen origin. Katherine had feared it, he noted, and that gave Herod pause.

“Did she say anything more about it?”

“Well, no,” said Dismas.

“Like...how she felt?” Herod continued. 

“I don’t know how she felt, other than afraid,” Dismas said, sounding irritated.

“She wouldn’t talk about it much. It is clearly an evil symbol,” Reynauld added. 

“In such context, yes,” Herod agreed. He was about to continue but Reynauld stopped him. 

Reynauld motioned for him to fall silent abruptly, and while the occultist was confused he obeyed without question. Putting his finger to his lips, Reynauld wordlessly ordered everyone to hold position and crept up to the nearest fork in the hallway, peering around the dusty stonework.

He heard something, certainly. 

_ Where it is coming from, I’m not sure. But I can hear it...there is movement ahead.  _

“Reynauld?”

Dismas was right behind him, his voice a barely audible whisper.

“I hear movement,” Reynauld replied. Dismas nodded and withdrew his flintlock from its holster, cocking its hammer back as quietly as he possibly could.

_ We have to hold position. It could be...nothing. Could be rats. Could be worse. _

Audrey and Herod looked confused but they, too, sensed danger. They pressed themselves up against the wall in between two crumbling pieces of furniture, and Audrey had withdrawn a broad dagger from a sheath hidden at her hip. The sheath had been concealed by her billowing cloak and baggy shirt, and Reynauld found himself inadvertently wondering what other tricks she had stored beneath that cloak. 

“Reynauld,” Dismas whispered, and Reynauld returned his attention to the situation at hand. He heard what could now be clearly discerned as the clanking of armor, and the drumming of footsteps on the cold stone, marching in unison. 

_ Put out the light.  _

Reynauld quickly snuffed the torch out with a damp cloth and stuck the smouldering stump into a nearby sconce, bathing them in darkness. They did not move a muscle and kept a low profile against the wall as the unit of skeletons, oblivious to their presence and concentrating on their task at hand, marched past in lockstep. Reynauld had no idea how many there were, but he had no interest in provoking a fight with any of them.

_ Not today. We’re not going to get another one wounded.  _

He waited a few minutes after the convoy passed before he withdrew another hunk of wood and, struggling in the darkness, made the necessary preparations. The light returned to them, a welcome respite from the vice grip of shadow, and everyone seemed to be visibly unnerved after their encounter.

“These halls were once a repository for a great many set of bones,” said Reynauld, moving forward once again. 

“Yeah, and now they fucking walk,” Dismas snorted. 

“Such curious necromancy,” Herod mused, almost too casually. “I think this strange symbol of yours can teach us quite a bit.”

Reynauld had no comment on that. 

The world in which they walked was a silent one. Devoid of any form of true life, stalked only by walking memories, the ruined estate of the Lancette family ran deep into the earth like the veins of a body. Though they had spent months mapping these ruins, they had yet to explore every one of its passageways, and were far from finding the point at which the twisting hallways finally terminated. 

_ If they terminate _ , Reynauld thought, as his stomach tightened itself involuntarily at such a despairing thought.  _ Perhaps they go on forever, and ever. Into the heart of the world.  _

The corridor ahead of them had once been well-decorated, but much of the furniture that had once adorned the demi-colonnade ahead of them had rotted away years ago, and the tapestries were moth-eaten and worn into thin rags. The iron sconces along the wall once held torches, but now they rusted away and crumbled under their own weight, lost to the ravages of time. Whatever life had flourished in this place before had long since ceased to exist, reanimated perhaps only in walking bones. 

_ We have been here before,  _ Reynauld thought. He remembered now; running through the darkness, past tapestries cast into darkness and past doorways long forgotten by mankind, bearing Katherine in his arms as they struggled to find their way back to the light.  _ We are close.  _

“We are nearing the place, Dismas. Can you find the way?” Reynauld asked. 

“It shouldn’t be far,” Dismas said. “What if it’s not there, Reynauld?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Fair point,” Dismas admitted, shrugging. 

“I wish I knew what it was,” said Reynauld. “But I admit...its purpose escapes me.”

“You’re asking the wrong fellow, here,” Dismas said. 

“I’m just thinking out loud. You know how much I’ve been thinking about this.”

“You got us arrested for it,” Dismas reminded him cheekily. 

“I’m sure it was not your first time in a jail cell.”

Dismas smacked his lips. “Afraid not,” he said. 

Herod was the first to stop. He halted, and raised his head, as though attempting to sniff the air.

“Herod?” Reynauld called back, and both Audrey and Dismas stopped as they realized that the occultist had come to a pause. Herod did not reply, but his eyes flashed wildly from one side of the corridor to another, and his fingers began to shake and wriggle.

“Herod,” Reynauld called again, his tone more commanding. That seemed to snap him out of his brief trance, and he turned to face Reynauld, staring at him with unprecedented intensity. 

“I sense it,” Herod told him, his eyes boring holes into Reynauld’s own. “I sense what you are looking for.”

The occultist began to move, pushing past Reynauld and a very confused Audrey. 

“Watch yourself now,” Audrey called out, but Herod was too determined to heed her. He marched on, disappearing around the corner, vanishing into the gloom. Reynauld wondered for a moment if that was the last time he would ever see the occultist alive. 

But as he rounded the corner he found Herod standing in a very familiar location, his eyes patiently scanning the sigil before him. It had changed, though, from what Reynauld had remembered; what had once looked like thick charcoal smeared upon the stone had morphed into some black, writhing mass that seemed to be growing out of the wall. It shape and dimensions had not changed, but its characteristics had undergone a severe evolution since they had last encountered it.

“What the hell,” Audrey whispered under her breath.

“Well, that’s new,” Dismas said. 

Reynauld approached the sigil, which seemed to dance with a mad form of dark energy. No longer consigned to its limited dimensions on the wall, it had grown out and had taken up a color that he could only describe as blacker than black, like staring into a bottomless pit. 

“What can you tell me about this, Herod?” Reynauld asked. 

“Precious little, other than guesswork,” Herod replied. “It’s eldritch in nature, though. It channels power from another place. Perhaps another world.”

“I don’t like it,” Reynauld said, wincing as the sigil shuddered violently for a moment. 

“You have good reason to not like it,” said Herod. “But I believe it is harmless, for the most part.”

Herod reached out as if to touch the strange creation. Reynauld moved to stop him, but Herod brushed his hand aside and pressed his index finger and thumb against the side of the sigil. It did not react at all to the contact; it did not blemish, it did not shrink, nor did it lash out or grow in size. Nothing happened.

“Unsurprising,”

“That was a bold thing to do,” Reynauld said, grimacing as Herod withdrew his hand and reached for his dagger.

“I believe that this is just a repository. It stores dark energy like a barrel stores salt or sugar,” Herod explained, withdrawing his strange, ornate side piece from its scabbard. “There is something evil that draws upon this storage, like a man drawing from a well. We must cut it off.”

With one quick movement, Herod slashed through the symbol, severing it into two halves. Almost immediately, it quavered, began to violently undulate, and then dissipated into a fine particulate mist, which fell gently to the floor like dust shaken loose from a tablecloth. The mist dispersed and within seconds no trace of the eldritch creation remained. 

“We have done well,” Herod said. 

“What if that was a mistake?” Reynauld wondered, taking the lead of the party once more. 

“Well, we shall soon find out if that is the case,” Herod remarked, unperturbed. 

“I don’t like it. It’s like...how to describe it-”

“A shadow taking form?”

“Sort of, yes,” Reynauld said.    
“That is what it is, essentially. Darkness molded into being,” Herod explained. 

“That is not a proper thing,” Reynauld said. He involuntarily shuddered. 

“Not at all. And I doubt it is the last one we will see,” said Herod. 

Reynauld had a number of questions, but he was certain that Herod did not have the time nor the patience to answer all of them. The Brown Sisters had provided him with some literature once about the “dark arts” and their “unholy manifestations”, but it had amounted to little more than proscriptions against sexual deviants, street tricksters, and hysterical women. He was aware of the concept of  _ eldritch  _ power and what sorts of horrors it could create, but Herod seemed to be far more informed than he.

_ Perhaps over a drink, we’ll talk. A drink, or four.  _

Reynauld was about to ask another question when he turned to his right and noticed a number of intricate markings on the wall beside him. In the dimming light of the torch, he had almost missed them, but now he halted and turned to face the wall to see what would present itself.

The markings on the wall, less outwardly menacing than the sigil but still unnerving, appeared to be some form of crude lineart. Drawn in what was likely charcoal, a towering figure could be seen standing over what one could construe as rubble and bones, though it wasn’t quite clear. The figure was lacking in detail but appeared to be dressed in a long, flowing robe that covered his whole body, topped off with a sinister cowl that hid any facial features. The drawing ran from floor to ceiling, and was done with the intent of intimidating some and inspiring awe in others.

“Light almighty,” Reynauld grunted, studying each aspect of the piece carefully.

“Well, what do you make of this one, then?” Dismas asked, eyeing Herod. The occultist appeared perplexed. 

“There is no power built into this. It’s just a drawing,” Herod said. 

“Nothing at all?”

“It’s just charcoal on stone,” Herod said, reaching out to it. The charcoal smudged at his touch. 

“Have there been humans down there?” Dismas wondered.

“They wouldn’t have been alive long enough to make this,” Reynauld said. “Not down here.”

“So you want to tell me that a bunch of walking bones made some art?” Dismas scoffed. 

“There is something else down here. Beyond bone,” Herod said. He turned to Reynauld, and Reynauld turned to him, acknowledging him.

_ He knows. He can feel it, but how much does he know?  _

“There is,” Reynauld said. “Are you saying-”

“I don’t want to say anything. I am just as puzzled as you are. We must learn more before we reach conclusions,” Herod said. 

The occultist was already moving away, but Reynauld could not help but continue to stare at the creation, even as the others began to follow Herod.

The figure in the center was imposing, but seemed almost at home in the grim, dusty ruins. The figure appeared human, but something about the way it had been etched informed Reynauld that it was not so; or at least, no longer. Remus Lancette’s journal entries were coming back to haunt him.

_ And I will lead them on so that more life will rise from the dust in their footsteps.  _

Reynauld, troubled, moved on. Once more the drawing was consumed in shadow, as it was meant to be. 


	7. A Pitiful Life

“Emilia says we’re not going anywhere.”

“That’s bullshit.”

Dismas grumbled and took a quick swig of his drink, staring out the tavern’s window as the rain hammered on the panes relentlessly. The tavern was virtually empty; on days like these, nobody wanted to slog through mud and frigid water for a drink. Only the truly determined would struggle like that.

_ I suppose we’re determined. Or, we’ve become alcoholics. Light help me.  _

Reynauld looked down at his mug and felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. His appetite was slowly diminishing and he couldn’t help but pick at his cuticles constantly. Anxiety was getting the best of him.

“Does she think a little bit of rain will stop us?”

“It’s more than a bit of rain, Dismas,” Reynauld said. 

“Well, I was...understating it, somewhat-”

“A storm shouldn’t be this violent. Not a normal storm in a normal place, anyway,” said Reynauld, glumly looking over his shoulder at the window. The ramshackle houses on the other side of the street were barely visible in the torrential downpour. 

“We’re not in a normal place, friend,” Dismas reminded him.

“How could I forget.”

He was picking at his cuticles again. It helped him focus his mind on something other than those wretched ruins far up on the moor. 

“Don’t think about it, Reynauld,” Dismas said. 

“I’m trying.”

Dismas had noticed him picking. He was mildly embarrassed, but glad that Dismas had at least mentioned something. Conversation was a good distraction.

“Herod was already planning another expedition, he’s just waiting to speak with you and Emilia,” Dismas informed him.

“I know, he mentioned it.”

“Then why are you worrying?”

Reynauld didn’t have an answer immediately available. A thunderclap marked a moment of silence between the two of them, one loud enough to shake the window panes.

“When did Herod want to go?” Reynauld asked.

“Soon,” said Dismas. “Soon...ish.”

“That’s too vague. I need to talk with him,”

“Well, you won’t go anywhere unless Emilia approves of it,”

“We need to get back down there. You, me, Herod.”

“What about Katherine?”

Reynauld paused, mulling the idea over. He remembered the discussion he had with Katherine in the chapel. He had seen the fear in her eye, the way her face had drained of color with even a single mention of the sigil. She already feared the skeletons, but that sigil and the darkness within it...that was too much for her to bear.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Well, she’s always been a good companion,” said Dismas.

“I know. But she’s...afraid.”

“Yeah.”

They paused. Dismas quaffed a bit more of his cup, staring out at the rain lashing against the windows. He bit his lip as if deep in thought. Strange, because Reynauld was thinking as well. 

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Reynauld finally spoke up again.

“Clearly-”

“We know what’s down there, Dismas,” he continued. “But we know precious little. Far too little.”

“And what do you reckon we can do about that?” Dismas asked, sounding unenthusiastic. 

Reynauld paused again, looking down at his half-empty mug. His appetite for alcohol had been replaced with an appetite for adventure.

“I’m going to the keep’s archives,” he announced.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“When am I ever?”

Dismas was stunned into silence. He only watched as Reynauld rose, left a few dingy copper coins on the table, and departed from the tavern without another word. 

* * *

 

Reynauld was soaking wet by the time he set foot back into the keep, no thanks to the fact that the guards at the gate had accosted him for three minutes to ask him about his business. Apparently, they were keeping an eye out for “suspicious persons”; when Reynauld had pointed out that he had been to the keep no less than four times in the past week, they had simply shrugged and informed him that those were their “orders”. 

_ Can’t blame them much,  _ Reynauld thought, as the heavy oaken doors of the front hall of the keep slammed shut behind him.  _ I can blame Emilia, though.  _

These halls grew more familiar by the day, like a second home that he had inadvertently adopted. The guards still challenged him, but that was their duty; no one was allowed to enter the keep without checking in with some group of guards first. 

_ It’s all just for security reasons _ , Reynauld knew. But it still frustrated him, particularly when he saw that the main hall doors were closed and flanked by two spear-armed guardsmen. As he approached, one of them stepped forward and physically blocked him from progressing through.

“Lady Lancette is currently occupied. I apologize, Mr. Leplaine, but it may be another few minutes,” the guard informed him.

Reynauld grunted and stood back against the wall, idly rubbing the tips of his fingers together as he waited, anxious. He could hear voices raising in tone from within the main hall, but could distinguish little until what was clearly a male voice began to shout.

_ “How could you refuse an offer of help? Do you not understand!?”  _ the male voice yelled, carrying through stone and wood, very audible now. Emilia’s reply was inaudible, but whatever she said unsettled him even further.

_ “You’re going to regret this. Can you not make amends with me?” _

Another beat. He sounded like he was confused.

_ “I don’t know why you’d think that. I’m here to fight your battle with you.”  _

Another pause, and then it sounded like he was accepting his fate.

_ “This will not be the end of our conversation. I’ll leave you to your work.” _

Footsteps could be heard on the stonework, and the doors opened. A strange man walked out, not dissimilar to the one Reynauld had seen about a week ago; wearing finely-spun garments, gilded greaves, and expertly-crafted leather riding boots, the man was the very picture of nobility and did  _ not  _ look pleased. He gave Reynauld a stiff and hostile glance before proceeding out, walking with unnerving purpose. Reynauld shrugged it off, figuring that he was perhaps a scorned suitor who did not take kindly to failure. He entered the main hall. 

“Reynauld?”

Given the discussion she had just terminated, Emilia sounded fairly composed. She sat at her little working desk, as usual, sorting papers and looking through what appeared to be a series of letters that she had just now opened. 

“I hope I’m not...intruding, or anything,” Reynauld said, and the doors closed behind him as if on cue. 

“Quite to the contrary. I’m glad to see you,” she said, with a forced smile. She seemed a bit frazzled but Reynauld could understand that sentiment. He figured it was now or never, and he was going for it.

“I need to ask you something,” he said. 

“Are you trying to get yourself into trouble again? I’m not serious,” Emilia assured him, after noticing his hesitation, “but I am curious. What have you come here for?”

“Information,” Reynauld admitted.  _ You shouldn’t be surprised.  _

“I figured,” said Emilia, letting out a tiny exasperated sigh. “And you want to get into the archives, don’t you?”

“Preferably with your consent, this time.”

Emilia suppressed a mild chuckle at that. She rose from her seat, setting her work aside, and stepped down from the dais to be on level ground with Reynauld.

“On the condition that I come with you,” she said. 

“Why?”

“I feel like we can accomplish more if there are two of us,” she said. “I’ve come to terms with the fact that I cannot dissuade you. And I’ve perhaps even realized that it was foolish to dissuade you in the first place.”

Reynauld had nothing to say to that.  _ Maybe so, but you admit your mistake. That is admirable.  _ He let her lead the way down towards the vault where the archives lived, taking ahold of a torch to light the way as they moved together. 

“I read your report about your latest expedition into the ruins,” Emilia told him as they walked through darkened, barren hallways. “Is that why you’re here?”

“That. And other reasons,” he replied. 

“You feel like what you saw was...connected, in some way?”

“To what your father wrote, yes,” Reynauld said. 

“How can you be certain?” she asked. 

Reynauld waited a moment. He had to think this through.

“I can’t be certain. But I can follow instinct,” Reynauld said. 

“That can be dangerous,” Emilia warned.

“I believe we’re facing more than a horde of walking dead men,” he said, turning his head to face her. “Something brought them back to life before. And I don’t think whatever it was just...vanished into the dust.”

He looked Emilia dead in the eye and waited for her reaction. She did not reply but the softening of her facial features told him that perhaps, just perhaps, he had got her thinking. But then they reached the archives. Emilia unlocked the door, stepped inside, and quickly accessed a storage cupboard where kerosene and cloth wrappings could be found. She lit another torch and rejoined Reynauld.

“I want to help you. Tell me what you want to look for,” Emilia said. 

“Anything that your father wrote about these necromancers would help,” he told her. 

“There should be more. Perhaps more than I’d like,” she admitted. 

“We have to look farther back. Do you know how this place is organized?”

“Of course, this is my own family’s-”

“Then follow me.”

Reynauld was taking charge in spite of her sudden change in temperament and her protestations. He remembered quite clearly how obtuse she had been just a week beforehand, and how they argued over what course of action to take.

_ She’s afraid _ , he noted silently.  _ Afraid of her grandfather’s ghosts. Afraid of tackling what might be down there. For what reasons, I cannot fully fathom, but I can guess...no man would want to pursue such devilry voluntarily. _

“The sigil we found was disturbing enough, but the artwork…”

“The way you described it, it sounded like something a man could make?” Emilia said. 

“But no man would want to possibly draw such a thing,” Reynauld said, shaking his head. “None that I could think of.”

“Then perhaps it was no man.”

“You think a pile of bones can make art?”

“You give them too little credit,” Emilia clucked. “You’ve read about the necromancers.”

“Very little.”

“I think I could help you shed some light on them. But let us keep searching,” Emilia said.

Reynauld wondered exactly what she was thinking about. He let her take the lead, searching through piles of leather bound books and ragged tomes, damaged by decades of wear and neglect, until they found a journal that appeared promising. Emilia flipped through a few entries until she reached one that appeared to be of value.

“Reynauld. Take a look,” she said, handing the weathered journal to him. He began reading.

 

“ _ My time with my creations has not been without its pitfalls and problems. Though they have serviced my plans quite well and have been working tirelessly at introducing renewed life to these grounds, they have become...well, I shall say, they have developed in unexpected ways. Though I assumed them automatons since genesis, it is clear that at least a fragment of their abandoned personality has returned to some of them. They have grown accustomed to speech, and what is worse, some of them have began thinking independently and rejecting my designs in favor of their own ambitions.  _

 

_ There is one in particular, whose name and condition I have forgot since his death, who stands out as not only incredibly motivated, but belligerent. He has come to constant argument and rejection of my orders, and even responds to my speech with his own. Though his words are hollow and sound more like mimicry than genuine speech, nevertheless they give me pause. Since a disagreement we had two days ago, he has since locked himself in his own laboratory and has been experimenting with the revival of the long-dead, something I have never ventured to do myself. What life can be pulled out of dust and bones, I wonder? I aim to find out.” _

 

Reynauld shuddered and set the book down.

“These necromancers were not slaves to his will,” he said. 

“He quickly figured that out. There are other entries I have read,” Emilia informed him. 

“And what did they say?” Reynauld asked. 

“They are all older. Reflections, if you will,” she replied.

“And?”

“He doesn’t say much about them. Speaks of them as though they are...gone? But they certainly cannot be dead again,” Emilia said. 

“That would be ironic.”

“The way he talks, it sounds like he buried them somewhere. Sealed them off, and made the area inaccessible. He had regrets, I’m sure.”

“Well, at least one survived,” Reynauld scoffed. 

They searched for what felt like another hour - fruitlessly, too, at least until Emilia called Reynauld over when he was five shelves away, and turned his attention to a series of entries dating to 1621. 

 

_ “I fear my own pride and self-assurance has been my downfall once again,” _

 

The text read on.

 

_ “as the creature that has come to call itself “Ialdagorth” after some nameless horror it has come to revere, and perhaps even fear, refuses any further contact with me and has secluded himself in the depths of the warrens with the intent of carrying on its work, undisturbed. While I knew that of all the scholars of the damnable arts that I resurrected, he would be the most troublesome - I never imagined it would come to this point. This fiend, no longer recognizing me as the giver of its pitiful life, seems to be significantly more intelligent than its peers. They were easy to entomb or return to dust, whatever course of action I saw more plausible. “Ialdagorth”, though, is smarter and more cunning than his now-remanded colleagues.” _

 

“Ialdagorth?”

Emilia shook her head, as the name apparently had no meaning to her. Reynauld did not recognize it, either, but if it had some appeal to the necromancer then it certainly bore no good will towards him. He continued to read as she looked over his shoulder.

 

_ “This one thinks very highly of himself, I’ve noted. As previously stated, he has attained the ability to speak. Thus, he can write. I have managed to come upon some of his scrawlings and, while crude, they are dripping with pride and egoism. It is almost like the fiend has mirrored me, or the worst aspects of me. I fear what he has become.” _

 

“The drawing,” Reynauld muttered. 

“That’s what it made me think of too,” Emilia said.

“It’s too close to be a coincidence,” Reynauld said, shaking his head. “It describes him aptly.”

Emilia seemed to be uncomfortable. Perhaps reading her grandfather’s own reflections on his shortcomings and failures bothered her.  _ And rightfully so. The man did things considered unholy, at the very least. Ruminate on that a bit, and perhaps the Light can forgive you.  _

“Do you have anything else?”

“I found something from a year ahead. Apparently the problem did not end in 1621,” said Emilia.

_ Well, we’re dealing with it in the present day _ , Reynauld wanted to say.  _ It never really ended, did it?  _ But he waited for Emilia to produce the journal, an even more ragged-looking piece with only a few pages remaining in it. 

“I found this too,” she said. “Didn’t read it all but...could be useful.”

Reynauld took the book from her and read. He was almost immediately confounded by what he read.

 

_ “I have managed to deal with the problem lurking beneath my feet, for now. It is sealed away, not by stonework or by force of arms, but by the very power that gave it strength in the first place. Yes, perhaps it will not be a permanent solution. But I have sealed that gate to the halls and reliquaries long forgotten by the current torchbearers of my bloodline, myself the sole exception. I know what halls he stalks, his rage and vain pride fueling his work; even now, I am sure, he curses my name and my family and ponders a way out. The eldritch barriers, drawn from his own well of power, will hold so long as he never finds a way to harness the power as well as I did. But if that day comes...I pray that my descendants will forgive my folly.” _

 

“The very force that give him the power to resurrect the dead locks him down there,” said Emilia. “My grandfather was a wise man.”

“A vain and stupid man,” Reynauld grunted.

“Perhaps,” Emilia admitted, though she winced at the insult. “But he was clever.”

“You defend him?” he said, furrowing his brow at her. 

“Not at all,” she said. “I only wish to give credit where credit is due.”

Reynauld grumbled. He wouldn’t curse at her, no; that was not befitting of him.  _ Calm yourself. Let the Light flow through you and guide your next words carefully. Calm. Breathe.  _

He sighed and handed the book back to her, thinking cautiously about his next move.

“We are better-armed now. We can act,” Reynauld asserted. 

“There may be much we do not yet know,” Emilia protested. “I have not scoured this whole archive-”

“You can scour this whole archive and spend a year doing so,” said Reynauld. “We’re lucky we have what we have. And we can move from that.”

Now it was Emilia’s turn to furrow her brow.   
“Reynauld,” she said, her tone hardening. “There’s a reason I initially turned you away from this.”

“Because you’re afraid of facing it, aren’t you?” Reynauld accused her.    
“That...no-”

“Or because you’re afraid of admitting we have to face it?”

Emilia fell into a stunned silence. This was the first time that Reynauld had ever yelled at her, and he felt mildly ill, but he pressed on.

“You’re concerned about my safety. I get it. And the safety of others,” he said. “But I didn’t come here to live. I came here to fight. Will you stop me?”

It was a rhetorical question. How could she? Why would she?

“No.”

The answer Reynauld had been expecting. He could see her shoulders sag and the hardness seep out of her face before she even spoke.

“Then you’ll hear from me very soon. I’ll be preparing.”

* * *

 

He knocked five times before the door opened. 

“I was not expecting anybody.”

“Sorry for not informing you beforehand,” Reynauld said. Herod appeared half-dressed; he wore baggy trousers and a sash across his chest but his torso was otherwise uncovered, and he looked like had had been half-asleep when roused.

“You come at an odd hour,” Herod said. 

“Well, you  _ are  _ sleeping at an odd hour,” Reynauld informed him. It was barely seven in the evening. 

“Late night,” was all Herod replied with. 

“I apologize profusely for bothering you. But I need to talk to you. I’ve been reading,” Reynauld said. Herod sighed audibly and admitted him, and gave him a small but sturdy chair to sit in while they spoke. Reynauld gave him as much information as he possibly could; told him about the initial conversation with Dismas after the storm had struck, the trip down to the archives with Emilia, and the revelations that little adventure had unveiled. Herod listened to it all, soaking up every detail as a rag would absorb water, and he was transfixed in silence afterwards.

“The creature’s power is its strength, as well as its weakness,” he finally said, after Reynauld granted him his moment of silence.

“What?”

“When he said he sealed the necromancer into the crypts below,” Herod explained. “He did so with the same power that the necromancer possessed, right?”

“That...is what I read it as, yes,” said Reynauld. “But what’s your point?”

“I’ll show you.”

Herod directed Reynauld over to a drawer in his desk, filled with scattered sheaves of parchment and various personal items. Among the mess was a tiny little trinket, a wicker and wood fetish that looked to be primitive in nature, which Herod withdrew and showed to Reynauld.

“I took this from a creature whose nature is as foul and unholy as you can imagine,” Herod explained, slowly twirling the strange object between his fingers. It resembled a crude human figure, crafted clearly by human - or at least human-esque fingers. 

“I can imagine plenty,” Reynauld said. Herod ignored it.

“I assume you intend to tackle this necromancer?” Herod asked. 

“I have one single job here. And that is to destroy the enemies of the Light,” Reynauld said. 

“And you consider this necromancer to be an enemy of the Light?” Herod asked again. 

Reynauld hesitated.  _ Of course...is that even a question? What are you trying to prod me into?  _

“Of course.”

“Then I would agree with you,” said Herod, taking the fetish back over to his desk. “As well as disagree. Simultaneously.”

Reynauld was left bemused as Herod sat down, still shirtless and disheveled, and placed the fetish on his desk. He withdrew several different items - a small book, a sheet of parchment, ink and a feather, a few small pumice stones, and an oddly-shaped ornamental decoration that he placed at the very back of his desk.

“What did you mean by that?”

“Why did you come here, Reynauld?”

“To share this with you,” Reynauld asked, growing more perplexed with each passing second.

“And?”

“I want your support.”

“Ah. I figured that.”

He began to work. He scrawled on the parchment around the fetish, and set the object on top of the shape that he had drawn. He then opened the book and began to read carefully.

“What are you doing?” Reynauld asked. 

“Helping you,” said Herod. Reynauld ceased his questions and watched from the sidelines as the occultist worked. 

_ Asking anymore questions of this madman will be fruitless. Best to sit back and let him work.  _ Though Reynauld did not entirely trust the machinations of this strange and potentially unwholesome man, Herod had never done anything wrong by him before, and had proven himself useful and thoughtful on their latest expedition. Even when things began to take a turn for the weird, Reynauld sat quietly, hoping that Herod had carefully plotted his course of action.

The lights in the room, already dim after being hastily lit by Herod, began to waver and dim further as Herod began muttering strange and foreign words under his breath. He picked up the feather and began scribbling furiously around the symbols on the parchment, and Reynauld began to feel his chest tighten and sweat break out on the back of his neck. Herod was calling upon some strange power, and Reynauld wanted no part of it, but he felt transfixed to his seat. He could only watch in growing apprehension and confusion as Herod began muttering more loudly, bent over his desk with his hands grasping the edge, staring directly down at the parchment. And as soon as the process had begun, it had finished, and Reynauld could breathe easily again. But he was not satisfied.

“Was that necessary?” Reynauld asked, wiping sweat from his brow and neck. 

“Depends,” said Herod, turning around once more. He was bathed in sweat, and his facial features were strained, as though he had been concentrating immensely. “Do you want to win?”

“I want you to tell me what you just did,” said Reynauld. 

“I can explain some of it to you,” Herod said. “But much of it is beyond you. The profane arts are not easy to learn.” He extended his hand, the reformed and changed trinket in his palm. 

The nomenclature did not put Reynauld’s heart or mind to ease, but he accepted the trinket carefully.

“You can wear it as you like. As long as it’s upon your body, it will serve its purpose,” Herod explained. “If you want to destroy this necromancer and remand him to the void he was dragged out of, then this will give you an edge in the battle.”

“What does it do?”

“Nothing, really,” Herod said, shrugging. “Not that you can see. But its passive effects...well, they will make themselves evident.”

“Passive effects?”

“I am not exactly sure what it will do,” Herod admitted.

“Then what was the point?”

“It gives you a chance.”

Reynauld grumbled to himself and pocketed the fetish.  _ A chance? You think I didn’t have a chance before? That’s unsettling.  _

“The fight set before us is a difficult one. This creature will be flush with the same powers that are now invested into that trinket,” Herod said. 

“You think it’s enough?”

“By itself? No,” Herod said, but continued before Reynauld could interject. “But combined with your determination and strength? Perhaps enough.”

“It’s a gamble?” Reynauld ventured. 

“Everything in Tauros is a gamble. We’ve just gambled smartly so far,” Herod said.

“You’re not giving me confidence.”

“I never intended to do that.”

“Are you on my side?”

“Of course,” Herod replied. “To the very end if need be.”

Reynauld slipped the trinket into his pocket. With any luck, everything that Herod had said would end up being true. But he could not rely solely on Herod’s unwholesome and strange magicks. 

_ My own sword is more reliable than anything else, except for the arm that wields it. How many times have I been told that?  _

“When do you intend to act?” Herod inquired.

“Very soon,” Reynauld told him. “Emilia wasn’t so fond of it.”

“Emilia is too cautious and too afraid. She’s not ready to face her past,” said Herod, shaking his head regretfully. 

“Lucky her, she doesn’t have to face it directly,” Reynauld grumbled. 

“If you intend to set out soon, I insist that I come along.”

“Why?” asked Reynauld. 

“Because,” Herod explained. “I have a lot to prove. And many ways to prove it.”

_ That’s fair _ , thought Reynauld.  _ You’re not wrong.  _

“If this necromancer is as you say he is,” Reynauld said. “Then your services may be necessary.”

“When do you intend to set out?” Herod asked. He sounded like he was ready to leave at the very moment. Reynauld appreciated his determination, but they had more work yet to do.  _ But after that... _

“Very soon. But the moment I decide, you will be informed. Welcome to my crusade.”


	8. Into the Breach

Reynauld woke to gloom, but no rain.

_ A clear day. We can make our move.  _

He dressed hastily, but did not stop with his usual breeches, shirt, and overcoat. He put his armor on without any assistance - difficult as it was, it gave him a sense of accomplishment.

_ Everything but the helmet. That can wait. _

Half an hour later, he stepped out of his room and made his way down the hall. Dismas wasn’t far away, likely still asleep thanks to the significant amount of alcohol he said that he drank last night.

_ No matter his condition, I will wake him. It’s time.  _

Light filtered in through the grates in the ceiling above, indicating that the keep was alive with activity, as it should have been.  _ I need to talk to Maurice before we set out. Hopefully he doesn’t get carried away with his enthusiasm.  _

He knocked at the door to Dismas’ room, but received no response. A second and a third knock were required to rouse the highwayman, who opened the door just a crack. 

“I fucked it up, didn’t I?” Dismas groaned weakly, his voice hoarse. He was shirtless, his muscular chest bare and covered in what appeared to be scratches and tiny abrasions. He looked haggard and his eyes were bloodshot. 

“How much did you drink last night?”

“You’d mock me if I told you,” Dismas murmured, smiling faintly. 

“I need you with me, Dismas. How much time do you need?”

“I, uh-”

Dismas glanced back into the room behind him, as though checking something. Reynauld was curious but didn’t try to investigate.

“Half an hour. I can get myself together in half an hour,” Dismas promised. 

“I’ll be waiting.”

Reynauld closed the door and continued until he reached Herod’s room. He needed knock only once; the occultist answered immediately. Decked out in his traveling garb, sash and all, with his head swaddled in thick, padded cloth, he looked prepared to move out.

“I have everything with me,” Herod said, tugging at the straps on his saddlebag. “Do you have your trinket?”

Reynauld tugged at a string around his neck, summoning the tiny wicker object from its resting place between his padded outer shirt and his inner layer of padded leather armor. Herod’s upper lip flickered in what might have been an approving smile.

“Good. Then I am with you.”

They moved further down the line, stopping at the next room - which was, unsurprisingly, empty.

“I thought she was supposed to be joining us?” Herod asked, peering into an empty but orderly, clean room devoid of anything other than bare necessities.

“She will be,” Reynauld promised him.

_ I know where she is _ , Reynauld thought.  _ We will need to make a stop for her.  _

They made their way up a set of stairs and towards the keep’s main hall. Men moved through the dimly-lit hallways, bearing weapons, supplies, or anything they thought useful to bring. He was glad to see such a turnout, as though the village were taking his side with this.

_ More than I had thought. Perhaps they will make crusaders yet _ , Reynauld thought, looking over a few of the crudely-armored, disheveled, but motivated looking militiamen. Those that he passed bore a variety of weapons: battle-forks, sledgehammers, spears, halberds, and even older wheellock muskets. They all stared at him as he passed by.

_ It’s the armor. A warrior in plate armor must be seeming like a thing of the past these days. How times have changed.  _

He threw open the doors of the main hall, Herod by his side, to find at least two dozen men within, gathering and examining weapons to make sure they were prepared for battle. In one corner of the room, a grindstone spun on an axis, and three men had gathered around to sharpen their blades before battle. In another corner, a few had gathered to pray out of a tattered old copy of the  _ Chansons _ . And in the center of it all stood the organizers - Maurice and Cordelia, together - speaking to a company of hearty men and women who had volunteered for the job ahead. Maurice bid Reynauld a broad smile when he spotted the crusader.

“Glad you could join us. You’re not a moment too soon,” said the halberdier. 

“Are we almost ready?”

“I’ve been most eager to put these men and women to the test. We are most certainly ready,” Cordelia interjected. 

“I hope you’ve prepared them suitably.”

“Keep the torches lit. Aim for the head. Don’t try to bleed them. Got it all,” Cordelia promised, smiling gaily. 

“This lass knows how to fight, she surprised me!” Maurice exclaimed, smiling in turn at her. She didn’t return his gesture. 

“Well, I did serve with the Tenarum force. I know my way around weapons,” Cordelia said, her face sour.

“Your militia will serve us well today,” Reynauld promised her, approaching the two of them. “We’ll be ready to set out in under an hour. Do you know the plan?”

“We’ve got the maps with us, thanks to the Baroness,” Maurice informed them. “She wasn’t too thrilled to-”

“-be allowing this, yes,” Reynauld cut him off sharply. “I’m well aware of her concerns. Don’t worry. We have approval.”

“Yes, well, I have the maps and am working with locals who are familiar with the land. We should be good to get to St. Martin’s,” Maurice said. That was good news.

_ That’ll be the easy part, though _ , Reynauld knew.  _ The hard part comes afterwards.  _

“You light the torches as soon as you arrive there and set up your barricades. With as large of a group as you have, they’ll be coming for you quickly,” Reynauld informed him. 

“We’ll be ready,” Cordelia promised. It was then that Reynauld noticed the figure standing on the dais at the very back of the room, dressed only in nightclothes and looking quite perturbed. 

_ Ah, hell. I hope she doesn’t have regrets.  _

Emilia Lancette made eye contact with him, and he knew she had to see him off. Quickly, he excused himself from the company of Maurice and Cordelia and moved through the crowd, up the inclined steps, to meet her. 

Emilia seemed shocked by the display in front of her. And Reynauld tried to put himself into her shoes - er, slippers - before speaking. Two dozen men and women, all armored and armed and gnashing for a good fight, gathering in your own home for something you’d barely approved of? 

_ Yes, this might be a bit uncomfortable. _

“Did you forget what day it was?” Reynauld asked, breaking the silence between them. Herod stood at his side, uncomfortably quiet and unmoving. 

“I suppose so,” Emilia said sheepishly. She was growing flustered, for some reason that Reynauld could not fathom.

_ Perhaps it is too much. But it is too late to turn back. _

“We’re ready to head on out. Is everything okay, Emilia?”

She looked him square in the eyes, as though she wanted to say  _ no, don’t go, this will end terribly, you’ll all die. Don’t go out there. _

“I am fine. I wish you all good luck. Make me proud.”

That was all she said before she hurriedly slipped back towards her quarters. Reynauld turned to Herod to ascertain his thoughts on the matter.

“She is not confident,” Herod noted. 

“She never was.”

“We’ll make her proud. Come.”

Reynauld was encouraged once more, and set off with Herod back down the dais steps into the main hall, where a new arrival had joined the throng of warriors. 

“Highwayman,” Herod greeted him sternly.

“I have a name,” Dismas grumbled. 

“Glad you can join us,” Reynauld said.

“A week passes quickly, huh?” Dismas mused. “Seems like it was just hours ago that you brought this stupid plan up with me.”

“Come now, Dismas. When have I ever made a stupid plan?” Reynauld asked, patting him on the shoulder to punctuate his condescension. 

Dismas just groaned and rubbed his forehead. “We’re going to get fucked up down there.”

“No, my friend. This day will be ours,” Reynauld promised.

“Says the man with armor.”

Reynauld had to chuckle a bit at that.

They moved through the crowd and bid Maurice and Cordelia to rally their people and meet at the northern gate of the town. Before their rendezvous, they had one more member of their party to gather.

“She’s going to be at the chapel,” Reynauld informed them when Herod asked again. “Where else?”

“I’m surprised she’s ready to go back,” Dismas said.

“Katherine is no pushover. She won’t run from her fears,” Reynauld said. And so on they trudged up the hill in silence, moving past curious locals as they walked. The whole town seemed to be aroused, as people turned out from their homes to see the volunteers off or watch the procession with confusion, interest, or a mix of both. 

_ This is the greatest show of force Tauros has seen in...I do not know how long,  _ Reynauld thought.  _ But they are all blessed. The Light will guide them. _

The chapel was empty except for one small, brown shape kneeling in the first row of pews, her voice barely audible. As Reynauld drew closer, she stopped her humming and rose up to face him. Fully dressed in the garb of the Brown Sisters, with a single cuirass of plate mail strapped around her chest, she had never looked more happy to see Reynauld.   
“Sister. The Light is proud to have you at its side on this day,” Reynauld greeted her, and they embraced. 

“And I am proud to be at your side,” she said, smiling at him. “Will you lead on?”

“This is my crusade. I will be at its helm until its end.”

Their exchange, brief as it was, gave him hope. Katherine was ready to face the ruins once more, and that gave him additional motivation to press on. Either she had come to terms with her fears, or she was ready to face them once more. 

_ Either way, I’ll be at your side, sister. Just as our orders were meant to be.  _

They met Cordelia, Maurice, and perhaps a hundred men and women at the northern gate of the town, close to the cemetery. Up ahead of them, the peak of the moor and that dreadful  _ chateau  _ in its ruinous state loomed, as though beckoning them into its clutches. Reynauld knew that they would find this necromancer, somewhere; deep beneath that ruined manor, they would locate him. But  _ how _ .

Now that was the question he had no answer for yet. But he would not tell them that, not yet. It would ruin morale and potentially destroy his crusade. 

_ We’ll figure a way out.  _

“Men and women of Tauros!” Cordelia shouted, raising her voice so that all could hear. All heads turned towards her, and she hopped up onto the precipice of a low stone wall so that she could be seen. 

“The time has come to reclaim this land. The manor stands up there - but there is more at stake here. The land your ancestors farmed, and their ancestors farmed, the woods they once roamed in! It is all at stake!”

Reynauld kept glancing up at that manor. For some reason, it seemed more sinister today, as though it was expecting company and had prepared for their arrival.

“We will purge what holds these lands in a vice grip, and reclaim them. To war!”

A cheer rose from the crowd, and Maurice and Cordelia took the lead as the four of them moved separately from the main group, moving ahead more quickly than the disorganized, plodding column of militia. Before long, the little army was out of earshot, and the advance group - Reynauld, Dismas, Katherine, and Herod - was moving ahead as the vanguard. 

“Getting to the chapel will be the easy part for them,” Reynauld said as they arrived at the gate that parted Tauros and the abandoned estate. It felt more menacing than usual, as if it were alive with overtly malicious energy, waiting to ensnare every single one of them.

_ Don’t let it creep into your mind. Steadfast. Prepare yourself.  _

“St. Martin’s is a defensible position, though,” Dismas said. “They’ll hold, right?”

“They’ll hold.”

_ For long enough.  _

They trudged up the moor, sawgrass slashing at their legs as they moved along the weedy path that took them up to the servants’ entrance. 

_ The door is ajar _ , Reynauld noticed.  _ Something has been in and out of here.  _

“Get your map ready, Dismas,” Reynauld told him. “We’ll need to move quickly.” The column was not far behind them, now, as they had picked up the pace and started moving more quickly. Their time was limited.

Dismas fumbled with his map as they lit their torches and proceeded inside. No point in being stealthy, now; the militia would attract all of the attention, leaving them fairly unhindered in their path down. And so they proceeded - Reynauld in front, Dismas directly behind him, with Herod and Katherine taking up the back. Only Dismas and Katherine held the torches, as two lights was enough for the entire party.

The first two skeletons they stumbled upon stood no chance. Reynauld decapitated them both as they charged at him, waving their spears around like madmen. Automatons as they were, they could not move quickly enough to dodge his blows, and he severed their skulls cleanly with a single swipe of his broadsword. 

_ No more blood. She must be satisfied with bone.  _

They came upon another troupe of skeletons in a long hallway that led them to one of the secondary staircases. Four of them - one arbalest, with his crossbow already loaded and primed, and one of them armored in some ancient scale-mail that looked fit to crumble into dust with the lightest touch. 

The arbalest stood no chance. Reynauld leapt upon him as he pulled the trigger and his shot went wide, the bolt dashing itself against the stone wall exactly as Reynauld drove his blade through the skull and remanded the devil to his abyss.

Dismas took care of another, dodging spear thrusts until he was able to hack away at the skeleton’s spinal column enough to saw the head completely off. The other two fell quickly to Reynauld, and they moved forward once more.

“There is nothing to fear here, sister!” Reynauld called out to Katherine. “They are at our mercy now.”

Katherine, it seemed, was not convinced. He looked back, and he could see the fear in her eyes, as they wildly darted from one dark corner to another, expecting foes to materialize from anywhere. But she continued to follow, keeping up with their quick pace, never faltering when they met resistance. 

Until they encountered the bulwark. 

Reynauld and Dismas had just jointly dispatched a small battalion of skeleton rabble when they heard heavy, armored footfalls coming up behind them at a rapid pace. Reynauld spun on his heels just in time to see the massive, armored skeleton slam into Katherine, knocking Herod to the floor and driving her up against the wall.

Katherine bellowed in pain as she made contact with the wall, thankfully her arms free and unpinned. The creature made to hack at her face with a massive one-handed axe but Dismas fired a musket ball through the fiend’s shoulder before it could attack. It stumbled with the force of the blow and dropped Katherine to the floor, turning to face its newest attacker.

Reynauld dove into the fray, nearly taking the skeleton’s arm off with a well-timed swing. It lashed back out at him but the blow did little other than dent his breastplate and send him reeling backwards. A second blow aimed at him was deflected by Dismas, who narrowly held the creature back with his dirk as Herod struggled to get back on his feet.

_ Come on, occultist _ , Reynauld silently urged him.  _ Help us! _

The creature used its shoulder to knock Dismas to the ground and was about to move in for the killing blow when a brilliant light filled the hallway and the skeleton withdrew, using its armored greaves to shield itself from the light which was obviously a perturbation to it. Katherine, her face drained of blood and her eyes flooded with panic, had risen to her feet and cast a brilliant ray of light, piercing the gloom and driving the fiend into disarray. Reynauld saw his chance and took it, and drove his blade into the skeleton’s skull, piercing its helm and killing it in a single mighty thrust. 

He paused to recover. It hurt to breathe after the blow he had received, but he was able to tell that no blood had been drawn, at least not from him.

In fact, no one was bleeding, though Katherine was stammering to Herod about something being broken. They had been lucky; a single swipe from that axe to anyone else in the party, the sole exception being Reynauld, would have been a grievous and perhaps even mortal injury.

_ Our luck must hold. The Light must stay behind us.  _ Reynauld wanted to believe that they had every ounce of the Light on their side, but the encounter had shaken even him. 

“How bad is it?” Reynauld asked, drawing up to Herod and Katherine while Dismas gathered the torches.

“Broken rib,” Katherine wheezed, struggling to maintain her composure. “Hit...hard.”

“Are you able to walk?”

“Difficult,” Katherine sighed. “Feasible.”

“If you hold the watch for a minute, I may be able to help,” Herod said.

“Can you mend it?” Reynauld asked. 

“Not quite,” he said, scowling. “But I can try. At the very least, provide a temporary remedy.”

“Then try.”

Reynauld and Dismas both watched as Herod knelt over the injured Katherine, who grit her teeth to deal with the pain as Herod felt around for the break. When she gasped in pain and shock, he had found it.

“This will not hurt, but it may be unpleasant nonetheless,” Herod told her, and without further ado began to press his hands against the site where the ghoul had impacted her, where a massive welt was rising up. To their surprise, Katherine did not scream when he began to put pressure on the bone; in fact, she looked transfixed, as though Herod had rendered her speechless and immobile during the procedure. The murmurings, done under his breath so that they were rendered inaudible to the onlookers, gave Reynauld pause. He felt sweat on his brow again, and his fingers tensed up, as though expecting trouble. The lights dimmed, a chill swept up his spine. He could feel an unknown presence lurking in the very air around him, bearing down on his position.

This continued without relief or release for two minutes, as Herod pressed on the wound and muttered incantations that few living men could understand. When he released her and withdrew his hands, the lights returned and the anxiety dispersed, but Reynauld was soaked with sweat and could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

“That’s fucking mental,” Dismas swore.

“The occult is not a game, nor a trifling subject,” Herod said, turning now to Katherine. “How do you feel?”

“I feel...less pained,” she said, gently dabbing at the wound site. The welt had gone down a bit, and she was able to move without much trouble.

“It’s a temporary fix. The mend will eventually break as the power wears off, it will need the attention of  chirurgeon before long,” Herod explained.

“It will work for now, though?”

“We are ready to continue,” said Herod. 

They moved more quickly. They ran, even. Katherine, as fast as she could, supported by Herod - with Dismas and Reynauld in the front. They could tell that they were being pursued; the clanking of armor and the pounding of raw bone on stone behind them informed them that pursuit was not far behind. And they were becoming outnumbered.

“They know we’re here, and where we’re going,” Herod gasped, struggling to keep up with the more fitness-inclined fighters ahead of him.

“Where  _ are  _ we going?” Dismas cried out. No one answered him. They were moving blindly, but moving consistently downwards. 

_ That’s the goal. Wherever we end up - we’ll end up in the lair of the beast before long.  _

They came upon another sigil on the wall, a black and terrible symbol that grew like a malignant cancer out of the stones it had originally been painted upon. Herod did not hesitate. Setting Katherine aside like a child were to set aside a broken toy, he withdrew his dagger and slashed through the center of the sigil, scattering its component particulates like ash borne on the wind. In a matter of seconds, it dispersed, its evil presence vanquished with a single stroke.

“Any of them like this we find, we destroy!” Herod ordered.

Reynauld had a kernel of an idea of what he was doing.  _ The necromancer draws power from these. He called it a well. So we are drying up the wells.  _

They moved on. Another sigil, three minutes later - slashed in twain like a piece of wilted fabric hanging from the wall. Another one, five minutes later, this one more resilient to Herod’s attempts. It took a mighty strike to bring the aberration down, and by the time it had dissolved Reynauld could see skeletons moving not twenty feet behind them, bearing massive polearms and sharpened spears and hungry for blood.

“Katherine! Light! We’ve got to move!” 

Katherine did the best that she could but it was clear that her “mend” was weakening, as she needed Herod’s help to keep up with the other two. They could not stop and rest, though, and try to mend the wound again. If they did, the skeletons would be upon them, and there was no telling how long Reynauld and Dismas could hold off the horde before it overwhelmed both of them. And so they ran on, a few minutes of time bought by the light that Katherine had summoned to give their pursuers pause. It wasn’t until they reached the drawing that Reynauld knew where to go.

Though similar in nature to the one they had encountered before, this sigil was different and appeared to be even more detailed than the previous depiction of the necromancer. Instead of him being central to the scene, this one was entirely devoted to the necromancer’s imposing, intimidating form. He stood amid no background or foreground, and no other objects had been drawn; it was just him, arms outstretched as though to welcome them. 

“There’s more?” Dismas gasped, looking up aghast at the scrawling on the wall.

“At least one more,” said Reynauld. “Maybe even more.”

“We must be close,” Herod said. 

On a whim, Reynauld dashed to the right. Not three hundred feet down the hallway, at the entrance to what must have been a grand set of bedrooms, another drawing on the wall seemed to point the way.

“We must keep going!” Reynauld encouraged them, knowing now that they must be close. The next one was a bit farther, but at a fork in the path he saw it, the indomitable figure of a creature cloaked in shadow, seemingly urging them to take the right path. On they went, and not five hundred feet down that hallway they came to a door. 

The door itself was opened, and had perhaps been ajar for centuries. But Reynauld knew there was something off about this one; he could feel it, as though the very nature of the aperture before him repulsed him. He hesitated, his gloved hand gripping the hilt of his blade, not sure whether to progress or tarry longer.

“They’re right behind us, Reynauld!” Dismas shouted. “What are you doing!?”

Herod, too, had stopped short of going through the door. Dismas then finally stopped, and looked from one to the other, confused. 

“This is it,” Herod said. “Beyond here.”

“You think?”

“I know,” said Herod. “He is waiting.”

The horde of skeletons appeared behind them, silent except for the clattering of their armor and weapons. They had no other choice but to go forward. And Reynauld took the plunge.

_ I have come here for this. There is no other way.  _ With Dismas at his back, firing a shot from his pistol behind him as he ran, he rushed forward through the door, and for a moment felt as though he were rushing through sap. Time slowed to a crawl, and every movement felt like an agonizing struggle forward. But the illusion, such as it was, was only momentary, and a second later he broke free and rushed forward once more. 

The skeletons did not follow. They stood in place, menacing them with their weapons, but they did not move through the door. Reynauld halted for a moment and stared at their lifeless, unyielding eye sockets, wondering what had brought the automatons to a rest. 

_ “I’m waiting for you.” _

The voice filled his head like syrup, bringing his train of thought to a screeching halt. It was almost  _ painful _ , the way it took over his mind and filled his ears with a ringing, hollow, taunting tone.

_ “Come to me. Come now.” _

It was clear everyone else heard it too - Dismas swore out loud, Herod’s eyes searched the room wildly, and Katherine gripped her book and her mace closely and stuttered something from her recitations. Only Reynauld pressed on, as his blood was chilled to ice and his very brain screamed for him to turn back, turn back,  _ death at the hands of the undead would be preferable to continuing forward.  _

But he would not turn back. He moved on with purpose, each footstep bringing him deeper into a malignant domain that man had long since forgotten. They were not far; the hallway ahead terminated into a single room, where Reynauld could see flickering candlelight. 

_ “I await you. Step forward.” _

The voice saturated his thoughts and feelings and he felt as though his head was going to burst. It was a struggle to move but he passed through the threshold and into a room whose walls raced above his head to a ceiling cloaked in darkness, its true height masked by the blackness suspended above him. 

And there in the center stood the necromancer. 


	9. Not a Man

_ “You have come to nothing but your own deaths.” _

Though the necromancer stood a mere thirty feet away from him, he could hear its voice not in his ears, but within his head. The fiend, at least twelve feet tall and swaddled in a dark brown cloak riddled with holes and tears, was indeed human, but twisted beyond imagination into some perversion of its very nature. Reynauld could see hands, sharp bone and ridged knuckle, but everything else was obscured by a cloak or by some type of mask that defied identification. It was a rounded piece that fit snugly around the creature’s head, with the nape of the cloak tucked in to a crude and menacing iron collar, and in the center an open aperture bounded by a metal mantle revealed nothing but blackness within. If the necromancer had a face, he would not show it. 

_ “I applaud your bravery, though.” _

The necromancer stood on what could be compared to a dais, though it was littered with debris and was raised no more than a foot off the main floor. As the rest of the party spilled into the room, stunned into silence at the scene presented before them, the necromancer took slow, measured steps towards Reynauld. Arms almost at his sides, one clutching a scroll of paper with strange markings all over, he towered over the group not only in terms of height, but in terms of presence. Even Dismas, normally irrepressible, shrunk back in the face of the monstrous form before him. 

“Katherine. Light, and book,” said Reynauld, readying his blade. Herod withdrew his ornate dagger and Dismas set himself up in a battle stance, dirk in one hand and reloaded pistol in another. Though fear was rife within their ranks, they would not back down now. 

_ “Your light will not help you down here.” _

“You’re wrong,” Reynauld said, taking a step towards the fiend now. Unsurprisingly, the creature did not back down. It felt like it had an advantage over every single one of them, even though it stood alone against four seasoned intruders.

“Don’t listen to it, Reynauld,” Dismas said. “It lies.”

“I know.”

Reynauld tried to discern some kind of facial feature within that alcove where its face ought to be. He saw nothing in there but a void, and for a moment he felt as though he were about to be devoured by the darkness within. But Katherine lit the room up, her mace glowing with a radiant light that banished the blooming shadows around them, and Reynauld felt re-energized. 

“I will smite you down,” Reynauld promised, raising his blade for battle. 

_ “You cannot kill me.” _

“You are as mortal as I am. You are vulnerable to me. You are a man,” Reynauld challenged. At that, the creature grew visibly angry, and its voice seemed to resound within Reynauld’s head. Its bony fingers clenched into fists and it strode forward, mere feet from Reynauld now. 

_ “I am not a man. I am a god.”  _

Ialdagorth struck out with his fists and a single blow sent Reynauld tumbling towards the wall, his armor clattering deafeningly as he rolled up against the stonework. Thankfully, the strike had hit his armored torso, where the metal was strongest and thus most resilient. His head rang and he could taste blood in his mouth but he rose for battle, fairly untouched but still shaken. 

Herod and Dismas charged into battle in Reynauld’s absence, Dismas narrowly dodging a blow from the necromancer’s massive fist before driving forward to gut his foe. The blow was hardly enough to harm the creature, as it glanced off of his buckler as though it were a mere toothpick, but the force of the attack staggered the necromancer and gave Reynauld a chance to leap into the fray. 

Reynauld drove his sword forward but it struck the necromancer’s arm and bounced off without doing any sort of major damage. Whatever the fiend wore, it was augmented with some sort of armor beneath. Either that, or the bone was so ossified that it was resilient to anything other than an unimaginable crushing force. 

Another blow struck him and staggered him. This time he managed to stay on his feet, however, and deflected the next swipe from the fiend with his own blade. The creature stepped back, surprised, and seemed to disengage from the battle temporarily. 

_ “You won’t win this. The sooner you realize that, the more pleasant your death will be.” _

The creature continued to taunt him as Reynauld attempted to discern what angle would be best to strike from. Dismas attempted another assault, but was deflected by the beast’s massive arm, which swept him aside like a fly blown away in the wind. Dismas landed with a heavy thud ten feet away, and struggled to get back to his feet as Herod ran to assist him.

_ “Your friends will die slowly. Accept the inevitable and ease their passing.” _

Ialdagorth’s voice inspired nothing but dread. Reynauld wanted to drop his sword and flee; for the second time in this expedition, he felt undeniable fear welling up in his chest, and the grip on his blade tightened involuntarily as he struggled to stand his ground. He faced the necromancer without assistance now, as the other two aided Dismas. 

He remembered the little pendant hanging from his neck, stashed away beneath layers of cloth and mail and hidden from view. He remembered what Herod had said, how it would,  _ should  _ help him, and how it could change the tide of battle in his favor. He wasn’t sure now what powers it held, but it gave him enough motivation to strike out against the necromancer again. 

His strike did nothing. It glanced off of the beast’s forearm like a toothpick, and Reynauld stumbled backwards. But when he brought his own blade to bear against the fiend’s counterattack, he was not only able to hold his ground, but the necromancer himself stumbled from the force of the recoil. He stood there, as if shocked.

_ “It is a losing battle!” _

The voice echoing in his head now sounded a bit more desperate, a bit more concerned, as though it wasn’t expecting this outcome. Reynauld was about to take stock of the situation and try to discern a weakness in his opponent’s guard when he heard the clattering of armor and the rattling of bones from behind them. 

_ “You will die one way or another.” _

Skeletons flowed through the door that they had come through, no longer withheld by the force that had repelled them before. With spears and rusty polearms they rushed into the room, aiming to quickly surround and engulf the offending party before they had a chance to react. Quickly, Reynauld disengaged from the necromancer and rushed towards the other three, who were surprised by the oncoming undead.

“Keep the necromancer distracted! I will take them on!” Reynauld shouted, rushing past them with his blade raised. They did not question him, but let him jump into the fray like a hawk swooping down upon prey. This time was different, though.  _ Something  _ was different.

On his first strike, his sword cleaved through both iron armor and bone as if it were mere flesh. The skeleton’s head flew aside, its attack interrupted mid-swing, and it collapsed into its comrades, who were eager to join in and make their own attacks. But Reynauld took another one, and then another; he found renewed vigor and a power he had not familiarized himself with before. Every blow was dealt with newfound strength, not his own but pulled from something else. Even plate metal, in fairly good condition too, gave way to the blade and separated when struck. Within a minute, the swath of skeletons that had stood before him had fallen to his martial prowess. He had only received one blow, a studded club to his right pauldron, but it had left him with nothing but an ache there. 

Reynauld turned on his heel to face the necromancer once more.

Dismas lay bleeding on the stonework, a long gash riding up his right arm from wrist to tricep. Katherine stood over him, struggling with her satchel, her book and torch scattered elsewhere in her haste to retrieve medical supplies. Herod stood alone, his ornamental blade drawn, facing the creature one-on-one. Reynauld quickly sidled up to him. 

“Your blade has no effect on him,” Herod gasped, his face bathed in sweat.

“I know.”

“There may be one weakness, though.”

Reynauld did not get to ask where it was, because the necromancer charged and pinned him down to the floor with a mighty thrust. The claws did not penetrate his armor, but he could feel the vice grip tightening painfully, and struggled to kick and fight his way out of the necromancer’s grasp as the creature raised its other hand above him, preparing to deliver a brutal blow from above. Reynauld wondered if Herod could do anything at this point.

_ That knife of his is so tiny _ , Reynauld thought as he watched the fist come down at his helmet,  _ that it could barely cut bread.  _

The first impact hurt. The second impact hurt a  _ lot _ . Reynauld’s ears rang and he could feel blood in his nose and mouth, though the helmet absorbed most of the force from the strike. He struggled and writhed but could not escape. The necromancer prepared a third strike when Reynauld heard what sounded like the crack of a gun, and then a shrill shriek that pierced his ears. 

Reynauld rolled up and lifted his dented, damaged visor to see. Herod stood above him, a strange object in his free hand, and the necromancer was now on the defensive, struggling with a terrifying shadowy tendril wrapping around his arms. The black mist oozed and writhed over the necromancer’s torn cloak, restraining his arms from movement and appearing from seemingly no fixed point in space. He struggled against the horrific tentacles but to no avail; his legs were still free, though, and he slowly moved forward, approaching the two of them as Herod struggled to maintain his bind on his foe. 

“Get his legs!” Reynauld screamed.

“I don’t know if I can!” Herod shouted back.

The two of them dodged an attempt by the necromancer to swipe at them; an easy dodge, considering that his arms were virtually locked down by the tendrils that were now emanating from the solid stonework of the floor. 

“What do you mean you don’t know!?”

“Not enough!”   
“Not enough what!?”

Reynauld couldn’t receive an answer before the creature rammed into him and knocked him to the floor. His visor was severely damaged, as the necromancer had headbutted him directly and his iron mantle and connected collar had done such critical damage that the visor was rendered unusable. The last thing Reynauld saw before a sudden wave of darkness washed over his vision was a gaping black hole where a face ought to be, threatening to swallow him whole. 

* * *

 

He arose with a start and realized everything was off. He sat alone, naked, in a moth-eaten bed, in a dingy room illuminated by a single, sputtering candle perched on a nearby nightstand. The room was cold and empty, with paltry furnishings and cobwebs clinging to the corners, and for a moment he wondered if he was dreaming. 

He ran his hands along his exhausted body and felt a webbing of scar tissue, pockmarks from ancient fights, wrinkles where the skin had once been taut and alive. He ran his hands through his hair and found it wispy, ragged, and gray. 

_ Such is your fate.  _

A voice, not from any specific point, but from all around. Reynauld wanted to scream, but found himself unable to summon anything resembling his own voice, just a low gurgle, pained and raspy, and even as he remained sitting up he could feel tremors of pain run down his back. 

_ Do you see it now?  _

The overwhelming pain was not the sharp, stabbing pain of a knife driving through skin, but a horrible ache festering throughout his body. The ache of age, of wear and tear, of a man too experienced in life to enjoy it any longer. There came a knock at the door as he groaned again, his mind racing with terror at what he was suddenly experiencing. 

_ You will die alone, an old man confined to a bed turning coffin, without a caring soul at your side. _

Another knock at the door, and a pale, fat woman entered bearing a small bowl of what looked like stew along with a cup of water. She herself was old, with ragged, unkempt clothing, and said nothing to Reynauld as she set the tray at his bedside, ignorant of his state. He groaned at her and tried to motion to her for help, but she only cast a sympathetic glance at him and returned back out the door, leaving the food where she set it. When he tried to get up, he found his legs unwilling to struggle with him, and he collapsed back into bed, wheezing, his vision become blurry and then darkening as the light began to fade away.

_ You will have no one at your side. Everyone will part from you. Such is your fate.  _

* * *

 

Reynauld blinked and he was in his armor again, still on the floor, gasping for breath. His heart pounded like the footsteps of a raging bull, and he struggled to his feet as he watched the necromancer flail against a new set of tendrils wrapping themselves around his waist and upper legs. Herod, who looked to be struggling to stand on his feet, was holding a fist in the air and seemed to be keeping the tentacles in place, restraining the necromancer as effectively as possible. 

_ The devilry!  _ Reynauld thought as he struggled to his feet.  _ What else is he capable of doing!? _

“Reynauld! Go in for him!” Herod shouted. “I don’t know how long I can hold!”

Reynauld came back to his feet and charged, rushing forward with his sword leveled directly with the necromancer’s chest. But his charge came to nothing, as his blade failed to penetrate whatever lay beneath the cloak, and Reynauld stumbled back again.

_ What can be done!? There is nothing that seems to work! _

Reynauld tried hacking away at his legs, but failed. All the while, the necromancer roared furiously, trying to throw his bindings off and strike out at Reynauld. For a moment, Reynauld feared being faced with terrible visions once more, but as he stared into the void formed by the necromancer’s iron mantle, he could see nothing but shadow.

_ There’s something in there. There must be! _

“Herod! Get him to his knees!”

“What?”

“Force him down to my level!” 

_ If you can that is. Please, have the strength.  _ Reynauld watched Herod manipulate the tendrils in such a way that the necromancer collapsed to the ground, his powers overshadowed by those of Herod even if the occultist pushed himself to the limit. Reynauld was willing to give his trusty blade one last try.

_ Men of the Light do not give up _ , he knew.  _ They fight to the end.  _ And so he intended to do, if need be. 

He braced the hilt of his broadsword against the side of his cuirass, aiming the point forward at the necromancer’s face.

_ Or, rather, where his face would be. Should be.  _

The necromancer seemed to know what was coming, and wailed at Reynauld as if to demoralize him enough to stop his attack. But Reynauld charged forward, charged until the point of his sword went through the blackness and pierced flesh and bone with a sickening crunch. The blade stopped short of piercing through the fiend’s head, but it did its damage regardless. 

The fiend was unmistakably undone. A wretched cry, agony and anger, rose from the void and the collar around his neck trembled from fury. The tendrils dispersed as Herod collapsed, and for a tenuous moment it looked like the necromancer would be able to strike back. He rose and swept Reynauld to the side with a powerful blow, knocking the wind out of him and sending his sword flying across the room. Reynauld rolled over on his side and spat blood out of his mouth but could clearly see the crippled creature collapse onto the floor, clawed hands clutching at its chest as it sputtered and shrieked in pain.

There were no final words, no last memento echoing in his head to taunt him. The necromancer writhed, shuddered, and fell to the ground, lying still within seconds. 

The strike, as it turned out, had been critical. Reynauld wanted to attribute it to the Light watching over him and directing his hand, but he knew what had been the catalyst for his victory. The little trinket still hung suspended around his neck, as battered as he but remaining intact. He clutched it and made a silent prayer to the Light above as he recovered himself. 

_ By the Light’s grace, we have victory today. _

_ I think.  _

The necromancer did not stir, but Dismas did, groaning as he squirmed on the ground. Blood leaked from his wound onto the floor, staining it a vibrant crimson, and in spite of Katherine’s attempts at medical mediation he looked badly injured.

“The wound is massive,” Katherine said, her face pale and flecked with blood. “I don’t have enough gauze to wrap it.”

“Can you do anything more?” asked Reynauld. 

“My abilities are limited, I’m afraid,” she admitted, squeaking like a helpless mouse. “Will he be okay?”

“I don’t plan on fucking dying,” Dismas spat, but his voice was hoarse and it was clear he was exhausted and bleeding dry. 

“You won’t die, Dismas,” Reynauld promised. “I’ll see to that.”

He could hear Herod panting and coughing behind him, obviously exhausted. It pained him to ask, but they had little choice in the matter.

“Herod,” Reynauld said. Katherine struggled with something in her satchel, fretting quietly to herself. Herod glanced over at him, incapable of vocal acknowledgement.

“Dismas is wounded,” Reynauld informed him. “Bad.”

Herod nodded his head. 

“Can you help?”

Herod seemed to be on the verge of refusing. His body shook and he looked ready to collapse. But he soldiered on, rose to his feet, and lumbered over to where Dismas lay.

“It may take a minute. If I collapse, catch me,” Herod asked. Reynauld promised that he would, and sat back as Herod bent over Dismas, who grumbled at the sight of the occultist. 

“If you mess me up-”

“I won’t.”

Herod placed his hands inches from Dismas’ open wound, the crimson ravine running down his arm, and murmured the incantations once more. Reynauld felt the same sensation from before, but was too exhausted to feel any form of concern about it. They had just come face-to-face with, and defeated, something far worse. Whatever power Herod drew from, it wasn’t going to harm them at all.

Within a minute, the process was done. The flesh was loosely and crudely stitched together, looking more like a patchwork job done by a child than the restructuring performed by a professional chirurgeon, but it looked like it would hold. Dismas glanced down at his arm, muttered a muted  _ fuck _ , and rose to his feet with Reynauld’s assistance.

“Feeling well, friend?” Reynauld inquired.

“I’d like to get out of here,” Dismas said. Turning to the occultist, he thanked him quickly, and Herod returned it in his typical laconic fashion. 

“We’ll get out of here,” Reynauld said. “But go on ahead. I will be a moment.” They had no choice but to depart, leaving Reynauld alone with his opponent’s corpse splayed out on the cold stone.

The necromancer was still an intimidating figure even in death, his body larger than any man’s by far. Reynauld gently stepped over his outstretched arm, reaching down to the collar around his neck, and tested it. After a few trial pulls, he managed to wrench it free of its connector, and took it for himself. Upon initial examination, it looked like nothing more than a decorative piece of clothing, hideous in design and crafted out of the meanest form of iron. But he knew there was something more to it.

There had to be.  _ Right?  _

Reynauld left the corpse of the necromancer where it had fallen. “Ialdagorth” would be remanded by the passage of time, as it should have been in the first place. The way a man ought to pass.

* * *

Skeletal figures, wearing a wide variety of armored parts ranging from crude leather chestplates to rusted plate mail cuirasses, were scattered around the entrance to St. Martin’s Chapel. Many of them sported broken arms and shoulder bones, and many of them had some sort of head injury. At first glance, it wasn’t clear if anything was left alive in the vicinity. An eerie quiet, reminiscent of the deep dungeon where they had encountered Ialdagorth, shrouded the scene. The oak-and-iron double doors that admitted entrance to the chapel had been busted open, reduced to mere splinters hanging on rusty hinges. 

“Do you think they managed to hold them off?” Katherine asked, to no one in particular.

Dismas grumbled something negative. Reynauld figured it might be best to try and keep her spirits elevated, in case they had more trouble ahead.

“They were well-equipped. I’m sure they managed to hold out.”

That did not seem to help Katherine at all, who shuddered as she stepped over shattered bone and caved-in skulls. They had to tiptoe their way into the chapel, such was the apocalyptic scene at the gates; no doubt, whatever damage had been dealt to the defending militia had been returned with interest given the number of lifeless skeletons piled up at the doorway and at the entrance of the chapel. It was a struggle to even enter the chapel, but Reynauld managed to clamber over the bodies of both skeletons and dead men, and enter the ruined, debris-strewn chapel.

He heard voices, and for the first time that day felt elation. 

“Human?” someone called weakly, their tone one of fatigue and weariness. 

“Four of us,” Reynauld replied. He could not tell where the voices were coming from. 

“Oh, it’s you? You survived?”

Some whispering could be heard, and Reynauld saw a couple of bodies finally emerge from the altar and the back of the chancel, where several rotting pews had been overturned and used as makeshift barricades. He recognized once of the men immediately; Maurice the halberdier, his armor covered in dents and spattered with blood and his forehead wrapped in a red-stained bandage, emerged with a weak, but nevertheless welcoming smile.

“Well, we’ve never been a happier group of living men and women,” Maurice said, approaching Reynauld as the latter strode down the centre aisle of the chapel. Lifeless skeletons and dead bodies, some with gruesome wounds, were scattered haphazardly along the chapel’s floor. The few survivors, now emerging from their hideout, seemed surprised to see anything with flesh on its bones.

“How bad were your losses?” Reynauld inquired.

“Most of our force was slain,” Maurice said, looking around at the scattered corpses of his late comrades. “We...were severely outnumbered.”

_ As was to be expected. That is why you were the diversion...otherwise this would have been us.  _

“Do you have any wounded?” Herod asked, having recovered some of his strength since their ordeal deep within the ruins.

“A couple. The worst cases already...well, already passed,” Maurice admitted. He worked his hand through his hair and looked around at the corpses again, sighing. The survivors approached them in the middle of the chapel; a fork-armed peasant with a bloody cast around his arm, a couple of spear-armed militiamen, Cordelia the musketeer, and a few other men and women who looked surprised to be alive. 

“We killed plenty of them, though,” Maurice bragged.

“At great cost,” Cordelia added. Her frock coat was spattered with blood but she looked uninjured, and her musket was undamaged. 

“But the strangest thing occurred,” Maurice said, glancing around nervously as though expecting the dead to rise once more. 

“Strange things happen here,” Herod muttered.

“Not thirty minutes ago, every last one of our opponents collapsed to the ground,” Cordelia reported.

“Dead as doornails, aye,” Maurice added.

“Every one of them?” Herod asked.

“It was silent after that.”

Herod seemed to be reaching his own conclusions about that silently. Everyone else was just happy to be alive. 

Reynauld surveyed the group of men and women standing before him. No more than thirteen of them, the only survivors of a great battle that would almost certainly never be known beyond the boundaries of this estate. But he felt proud of them, proud of what he saw. He smiled at both Maurice and Cordelia, happy to see living people once more. That was all that mattered at the moment - life. 


	10. The Great Well

The storms were ceaseless. They ebbed and flowed, like the tide dashing itself against the rocky shoreline of the Tauros inlet, but they came every couple of days with fluctuating intensity. It was unnatural, just like everything in the cursed land.

_I wanted to believe that our victory may have signaled a change for the better_ , thought Reynauld, as he picked away at a few scraps of roast chicken and dry, tasteless carrot carved into chunks. _But I don’t think we made an impact at all._

“I believe I’ve lost my appetite for food,” Reynauld declared, pushing his plate away. Dismas and Herod glanced up, still working on their meals.

“Well, hopefully you haven’t lost your appetite for drink,” Dismas said.

“Oh, no, I could never,” Reynauld chuckled. “Can I get you anything?”

“If they have white ale, any type will do,” Dismas said.

“They have like three types here, Dismas-”

“Any type will do.”

Reynauld turned to Herod but the occultist shook his head in a friendly manner, as if to say _not this time, perhaps the next._ Whenever that may be; Herod was not particularly fond of the tavern, but on days like today customers were so scarce that it more resembled a library, if libraries served food and drink and were staffed by grumpy, weathered old men.

Reynauld rose and went to order their drinks. The storm seemed to be abating, thankfully, and it had not been as harsh as the last one a week ago. A day after their return from their fateful expedition to the very depths of the Lancette estate, a colossal storm ravaged the coastline, sinking three fishing boats and tearing tiling and thatch from the roofs of local homes. People were now wondering aloud what they would do if the storms began to uproot their very lives.

_At least this one is a bit less...violent_ , thought Reynauld, thanking the innkeep after receiving his order and putting two dull, scratched gold coins on the bar table. _We may not be so lucky with the next. When it comes._

Returning the drinks to the table, Reynauld saw that Dismas had already retrieved a tiny leather bag from his pocket, and groaned audibly as he arrived.

“Aww, buddy. No dice today?” Dismas asked, grinning widely.

“You’ve been playing those cursed dice for hours on end ever since you got that bag,” Reynauld said.

“Hey, mate, hate the game, not the-”

“How long have you had it? Six days?” Reynauld asked, passing Dismas’ drink over to him.

“Well...about. I found it in a bag on my doorstep the day after we got back,” Dismas said. “Never found out who gave it.”

“Anonymous gift, huh?” Herod said.   
“And a damn good one, too,” Dismas chuckled. “Dice, lads?”

Reynauld watched from the sidelines as the other two men played. Herod seemed to be having a difficult time with the rules of the game, as Dismas was constantly swearing and telling him to correct his mistakes. For his part, Reynauld had no idea what game they were even playing; during his time serving under the holy banners, such trivial and petty matters such as gaming and drinking were forbidden.

_Ironic, because these things certainly do help you from going mad_ , Reynauld noted, as he allowed himself to be lulled into comfort by the constant clattering of the dice. About ten minutes into the game, Dismas quickly rose from his seat, excusing himself rapidly.

“I gotta shit bad,” he grumbled, one hand reaching for his abdomen urgently.

“It’s the beer, isn’t it?” Reynauld said. He looked at his mug, but realized he had ordered something different. The highwayman dashed off and disappeared around a corner into the back half of the building, leaving the two of them alone.

“To be honest, I was never a gamer myself,” Herod said, setting a few of the die aside. Reynauld grunted at him in acknowledgement.

“Me neither,” he said. “Our order-”

“Quite understandable.”

“Understandable?”

“Holy orders have always been like that,” Herod said. “Brown Sisters, too.”

“Yes, they are quite...strict.”

“What made you change, then?”

“Oh,” Reynauld said, frowning as he considered how best to answer. “Well...I guess it was a gradual process. Once I returned…”

_Not home. You never returned home, did you?_   
“Returned back to the Great Waters. After I did my time on the crusades.”

“How many years were you down there?” Herod asked.

“Eight years,” Reynauld said, the memories trickling back to him like the seepage before a dam burst. “Eight very long...hot...terrible years.”

“You don’t wax positive,” Herod noticed.

“I wish I could say I did,” he sighed, frowning. “I really do.”

“And yet you still take pride in who you are, and what you stand for.”

“Are you trying to undermine me?” Reynauld asked. Herod’s face remained void of any discernible emotion, but he continued his interrogation.

“No. I just want to know. Are you proud?”

“I am,” Reynauld said. “But proud of what _I_ represent.” Emphasis on himself. What the order represented, that terrible chaos and that perverted wisdom, was leagues apart from him and his newfound strength.

“Ah. There’s the rub,” Herod said.

“You thought I identified with those evil banners still?”

“Well, I-”

“Those men do not follow the Light. They do not bring it, they extinguish it. I am not one of them,” Reynauld said, his voice dropping into a whisper that oozed the venom of eight years’ worth of regret.

“You still see the Light the same way they do, though,” Herod pointed out. “That’s part of the problem.”

“I...what problem?” _You think it’s a problem? A learned scholar such as yourself…_

“You still put stock in the fabrications they taught you,” said Herod.

“Who’s _they_ , Herod?” Reynauld asked, growing distressed. The occultist was dancing around his questions and keeping the interrogation on him like a hot press on steel. It was uncomfortable, and Reynauld found himself wishing that Dismas would make a hasty return.

“Your order. Whoever you swore yourself to,” Herod answered.

“And?”

“They lied to you, Reynauld.”

Reynauld hesitated as Herod began to stare menacingly at him. He felt like a bird caught in a trap, his feet seized by netting and his attempts at escape ultimately pointless. He swallowed hard, struggling over the dryness of his throat.

“Everything you were told about the Light is a lie,” said Herod.

“You speak heresy,” Reynauld snapped, feeling a surge of anger welling up in his gut. The alcohol had perhaps been stronger than he had anticipated, or else his reaction was a powerful one.

“I practice it, too,” Herod admitted, feigning a _you got me_ gesture. “Or so your order would tell you.”

“You mean to say-”

Reynauld could not finish his sentence, but Herod could guess at the nature of it. He nodded solemnly.

“You mean it?” Reynauld asked, aghast.

“Their powers, and mine? It’s all from the same source,” Herod revealed. “The great well. All-encompassing. As deep as an ocean and as broad as the space beyond our world.”

“They are hardly one in the same,” Reynauld attempted to argue. “The powers that the Light bequeathes are far different. They are not...dark-”

“Not all of my powers are dark, Reynauld,” Herod corrected. “You misunderstand them.”

“Yet you know so many dark things,” Reynauld pointed out.

“A consequence of the terrible world we live in,” Herod said. “But we have the same source of power. We just possess...different benefactors.”

It was such a revelation for Reynauld. He could tell that the occultist was not playing some sort of practical joke to disrupt and disturb him; far from it, his face looked like it could carve stone at a glance.

_He cannot be right. There has to be something different. All those years...the books, the lectures, the icons…_

“I wish you were joking.”

“I do too,” Herod agreed. “It would make it easier on you.”

“What is the Light, then? Meaningless?”

“Not if you assign it meaning,” said Herod.

“I’m sorry, I just-”

“I know. It can be disastrous. You’re not the first person I told this to.”

“Really?”

“Last one tried to bash my head in with an ale mug,” Herod mused. “He missed.”

“I promise you I won’t do that,” said Reynauld.

“Good.”

“But...I doubt I can sleep well tonight.”

“I don’t blame you,” said Herod.

“All my life, I was told the Light was the opposite of...well, everything that you practice. Things to be resented,” Reynauld explained.

Herod shrugged, and muttered something into his drink.

“I don’t resent you, of course,” Reynauld tacked on quickly.

“Eldritch is a thing to be neither feared nor worshipped, on its own,” Herod explained. “It is neutral. It is how you use it that determines it to be a force for good, or otherwise.”

“And that makes the Light a force for good?”

“Depends on who’s wielding it,” Herod said. Reynauld quickly reminded himself of his fellows in the order and put his mind to considering Herod’s revelation more deeply. There was a lot to think about.

_He’s not saying there is no such thing as Light, or the grace of Light, or blessing. He’s just saying it’s...different._ The very thought was difficult to wrap his head around. Somehow he had always known that the narrative woven for him as a young boy was too good to be true, but his faith had been steady through the years and through numerous trials. Had he been a fool?

“I see you have a lot on your mind,” said Herod.

“Don’t feel bad,” Reynauld assuaged him.

“I don’t. I hate lying,” Herod said.

“Then you must have been waiting for this a long time,” Reynauld chuckled. The occultist’s gaze lightened a bit at that.

“Perhaps too long,” Herod mused. Reynauld was looking for an excuse to remove himself now, though; he had a lot to think about, and a tavern was no place to be thinking. _Drinking, not thinking_ , he mulled over in his head as he finished his own drink and rose to leave. Herod bid him farewell, promised to inform Dismas about his unprecedented departure, and remained to finish his own drink as Reynauld left.

The storm had abated somewhat but thick, heavy raindrops splattered against his cloak and hood as he walked, taking an alternate route to reach the abbey more quickly. He noticed that several of the houses and buildings surrounding the main town square were receiving renovations, as building materials and piles of lumber lay about in yards and alleyways, hastily covered with tarps and cloth to prevent water damage.

_Prosperity is in the future of this town,_ he noted. _That, if nothing else, is something to look forward to._

Herod’s words continued to haunt him as he walked. There was no mistaking the occultist’s intentions, he had not been making to prank Reynauld or tease him for his beliefs. No, not at all. _He was too committed for that. He believed what he said, and oh...am I starting to believe what he’s saying?_

Reynauld dodged puddles and struggled up the hill to the abbey. Lightning flashed off the coast and thunder pealed in response, but mercifully it would appear that the weather was calming down for now and he would have time to make it back home before it restarted.

The abbey was nearly empty. Opening the heavy double doors, he found only two souls within; towards the back sat an elderly man, his clothing ragged and his hair matted, who paid no attention to the newcomer. At the front, however, a very familiar face turned in response to his arrival, and smiled gleefully at him.

“Reynauld!” Katherine greeted him, tapping the pew next to her. He took his seat happily, her company rejuvenating him a bit after his harsh conversation.

“You’re soaked,” she noted. “Has it been bad?”

“Not as bad as some others,” he said. “How long have you been here?”

“An hour, or so,” she replied, sounding a bit embarrassed. “I, uh...well, it’s comfortable here.”

“I agree,” he said with a smile. The churning in his gut was uncomfortable but at least he had Katherine’s presence. If nothing else, she could improve his mood.

_But should I tell her? Or would it be wise to...not mention it at all?_

“How have you been doing?”

“Alright. Haven’t seen you in a week,” Reynauld said.

“Not since we got back, no,” said Katherine. “Spent a bit of time with the chirurgeons.”

“Are you doing better?” he asked.

“Healing, thank the Light,” she responded, tapping her right flank weakly. “It’s not terrible. The break is already healing. Herod’s work helped, as strange as it was.”

“Strange indeed,” Reynauld muttered.

“Dark magics perhaps, but they do work,” she noted. “And you?”

“Oh, I said I’m alright,” he reiterated.

“Just have to check,” she said with a weak smile. “You know...have to keep close to brothers and sisters of the orders.”

“I appreciate it.”

He watched as she opened up her _Chansons_ once more, picked a passage that appeared to have been selected at random, and began reciting under her breath. At the same time, she withdrew a strand of worn, discolored prayer beads from a pouch at her hip and began counting them off, deep in thought, sitting in silence as thunder rumbled outside.

“I’m sorry,” she said after a period of quiet. “I just need to remain calm.”

“Calm about what?”

“Everything,” she sighed. “Today. This past week. All of it.”

She closed her book but her fingers continued to seek one prayer bead after another, relishing the experience.

“I’m sorry,” Reynauld said, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“It’s fine,” Katherine said. “This helps.”

“You did well down there, you know.”

She smiled up at him.

“So did you,” she said. “The Light gave us blessing and power, didn’t it?”

In that very moment, Reynauld was tempted to reveal the truth to her. He remembered everything that Herod had told him, word for word, and almost couldn’t bear to maintain the lie for her sake. But her eyes gleamed brightly, her smile did not falter, and he knew that she was looking to him for motivation and support.

“Of course it did. It always does.”

How could he tell the truth? Then and there?

_There’s no way to do it. Let her live the happy lie._

She smiled and returned to her prayer work, satisfied. Reynauld just sat in silence and let his thoughts run wild.

 

* * *

 

_P.S. 1_

The dream always started with her running. She was in no discernable physical location, but she knew it was one of the corridors deep beneath the manor. She would flee down those dark and twisted hallways, bearing nothing but the light in her hand, always being pursued.

But she would never be caught. And that was the worst part.

Katherine awoke with a start and realized that a thunderclap, distant but clearly audible, had woken her. Sweat was beading on her forehead and she felt woozy, a symptom of a rude awakening from such a terrible nightmare. She hastily lit a candle and murmured a few hymns aloud, calming herself before she could return to bed.

It was always the same thing. It started with her running, running until she found herself gasping for breath and on the verge of collapse. Then she would turn around, facing her pursuer once she knew she could go no further. She would never be caught, she’d always wake up just before then, but she’d catch a glimpse of her opponent’s face before the dream ended.

A skull. Always, a skull - and death.

 

* * *

 

_P.S. 2_

Sigrid Ausfersson had never been fond of people.

People were loud and rude, angry and hateful, and in general had always been roadblocks for her in life. Animals, on the other hand, were a different story.

She always knew where her Remy was immediately upon entering the pew, just by the fact that he was the only bird not squawking or flapping wings at her arrival. He sat there on his favorite wooden post, silent as the grave, waiting for her to come and provide him with the companionship and adoration that he always appreciated.

Sigrid was more than happy to give it to him.

While the other birds made their ruckus and caused a great commotion, she sat by Remy and gave him a little pat on the head, rubbing his feathers in his favorite spot. She had spent five years with him, the most dependable creature she had ever encountered, and she would be damned if anything were to happen to him in such a miserable place. She had to be the best caretaker she could be.

Her brief moment of reflection was interrupted not by any of the other inhabitants of the pew, but by the door to the building opening when she had not been expecting it. Someone else had entered the pew and she was none too happy about it.

But the person standing in the entryway when she went to inspect it was not the person she had been expecting. She had been expecting the falconer’s apprentice, or perhaps a town watchman sent to call upon her for whatever reason. The fellow standing there was a stranger, however, and Sigrid’s hand instinctively went towards the dirk sheathed at her hip before the man raised his hands in a gesture of peace.

“I’m sorry if I disturbed you,” the man said, lowering his hood. “I didn’t know you were here.”

Sigrid grunted a reply, removed her hand from the dagger, and decided to let him continue speaking. Behind her, Remy gave a low, throaty growl, as if warning the stranger to watch himself.

“The name’s Logan,” the blonde man with the scraggly beard introduced himself. “I’ve seen you around but we’ve never met.”

“You new in town?” Sigrid was cautious but so far this stranger was not particularly threatening, in spite of his size and stature.

“A few weeks. Been getting my girl acquainted with the area,” Logan said.

“Your girl?”

“My dog. Lily.”

Sigrid felt an immediate pang of sympathy for Logan, even as he remained a stranger and she felt uneasy being alone with him. The fact that he had a companion, just like her, was calming.

“Lily?”

“Aye. She’s a good girl. Been by my side for seven years now,” Logan said, with a faint smile.

“What brings you here?”

“Been wanting to find a good cause to fight for for some time. Used to be a lawman, farther north, but-”

“No. I meant right here. Right now.”

Logan was interrupted and he did not seem to appreciate that. Nevertheless, he regrouped with a quick clearance of his throat.

“I just wanted to see the place. The birds.”

“Hmm.”

“I heard them when I was coming into town,” he said. “Was just curious.”

Sigrid didn’t want to trust him, didn’t want to believe that was the only reason he had come. There had to be something else, something more sinister motivating him. But she relented, if only because she was picturing a beautiful dog, a grown girl with a good heart and sharp mind, at the side of this strange man. That was, oddly, comforting and made her feel more relaxed.

“Well, I’ve got a special guy in here,” “He’s been mine for five years?”

“Falcon, eh?”

Logan provided her with a wry smile. She did not return the favor, but she decided it couldn’t hurt to give him a look. A man after animals wasn’t something that she saw every day.

“I’ll show him to you. Come on.”

Logan eagerly followed as the two of them moved into the pew. The other birds in the coop shrieked at him, a strange face that could be a dangerous threat at any moment, but Remy was not perturbed. Remy sat on his post, quiet and contemplative as always, studying the features of Logan as he approached. He even remained still as Logan held out his hand, allowing the bird to catch his scent and become familiar with him.

“He’s a beautiful bird,” he said, holding his hand out. “What’s his name?”

“Remy,” Sigrid replied. “My right hand and my best hunter.”

“He looks like he’s in his prime,” Logan commented.

“I trained him well,” Sigrid replied, and involuntarily smiled as she remembered all of the days that she had taken him out into the field, letting him figure out how to respond to calls and commands on his own while having great patience with him. It all felt like so long ago now.

But there he was, looking as young and as proud as ever. And there stood Logan, careful and respectful of one of the world’s most beautiful birds.

Sigrid felt like she could make a new friend here.

 

* * *

 

_P.S. 3_

The Hawk’s Nest was far less imposing than all of the locals played it up to be. From the stories he had been told in the taverns and the brothels in the area, it was an impregnable fortress upon a mighty hilltop, overlooking the vast forest that coated the horizon to the east, in the direction of Tauros.

Yet the messenger, who only informed people that his name was “Relly”, did not feel intimidated or disturbed by what he was looking at. Rather, it appeared to be a rather ordinary wooden motte with reinforcements at important points, much like the keep back in Tauros. It was a large building, sure, but the stories had all been so horrendously exaggerated that he had to stifle a laugh.

The guards led him in but, contrary to their rough manner previously, did not haul him by his arms or bring him forward in chains. He was flanked on all sides by four spear-bearing men, rough-hewn farming types with grizzled features and thick facial hair, but he did not feel threatened, not yet. He carried his letter in his right hand and his satchel in the other, praying that this errand would be a successful one and he could return home tomorrow without delay.

“Lads comin’ from yer way tell stories,” one of the guards muttered, and cast his glance at Relly.

“What kind of stories?” Relly was trying not to sound nervous.

“They tell of demons as tall as trees and naked woodland hags with six tits and a dozen eyes,” the guard cackled. “That true, eh?”

Relly laughed along with him as they all took part in the joke. He didn’t want to talk about the strange, virtually lifeless beast that he had fought off three weeks ago. The shuffling automaton, the one that had slain Marno and Roger and killed four head of their cattle, had been called a _scratcher_ and had shrugged off multiple blows before one of the farmhands had pierced a weak point with a spear. He didn’t want to think about any of that, but why would he be here otherwise?

“You be polite and respectful to Lord Kurchev, now,” another guard warned him.

“Aye,” the first guard said. “We don’t do things here like you backwater folks do. We’re a dignified people.”

To punctuate his point, he spat on the ground. They opened the door and admitted him into the main hall.

The entryway of the Hawk’s Nest castle had been fairly normal but the main hall was more impressive, owing to the flying buttresses propping up every stone column and the broad windows built into the roof that let veiled sunlight filter lazily into the room. Relly wondered why everything was made out of stone, when the rest of the castle was made out of wood. He didn’t quite understand castles.

“Baron Kurchev,” one of the guards announced, and for the first time Relly noticed a small table, decorated with candles and sparse paperwork, where a lone man sat, bedecked in fine raiments and a small felt cap. “A messenger from Tauros.”

“Tauros.”

The man standing at the table flipped the word back at them as though he were a boy lazily tossing a rock at a tranquil pond. He waved his hand at them. “Bring him forward,” he said. The guards pushed Relly forward, and the young farmboy from the little oak-tree shaded estate on the south side of town was faced with Baron Alexander Kurchev for the first, and last time in his life.

“Tell me your name,” Baron Kurchev requested, as Relly came up to within spitting distance of the table.

“Relly.”

“My lord.”

“Pardon?”

“You should say, _my lord_ ,” Kurchev corrected him, rolling his eyes ever so slightly at the lad’s ignorance. “It’s proper.”

One of the guardsmen sniggered. Relly found himself feeling very uncomfortable and very embarrassed, and managed to stammer out a _sorry, my lord_ in short order, afraid of the consequences. That seemed to satisfy Baron Kurchev for the moment.

“I brought a letter. From Lady Lancette,” Relly added, making sure to remember the business at hand. He extended the slip of parchment.

“So you represent the Barony of Tauros? Hand it over,” Kurchev demanded. Relly did as he was told, and stood there in front of every eye in the room, hands behind his back, gaze lowered, as Baron Kurchev silently read the text. The nobleman audibly snorted when he was finished, and tossed it aside like a used handkerchief.

“Lady Lancette rejects all previous offers but wishes to extend her gratitude for my attempts,” he said aloud, speaking so that all present could hear. “She offers a gift of gold and silver and additional gratitude should I lend her my support in her troubles.”

He chuckled and poured himself a glass of wine from a small decanter, more amused than perturbed by the letter’s contents. Relly already knew that he had failed, and just wished that he could be allowed to leave now while his dignity were still intact.

“She offers me a gift of gold,” Kurchev repeated, snorting. “She obviously forgets who my father is.”

“I apologize, my lord,” Relly said, sheepish as ever.

“Don’t apologize,” Kurchev reprimanded him. “You did nothing wrong. It’s your fool of a Lady who should be apologizing.”

Relly said nothing but Kurchev had already risen, his wine untouched. A bad sign, that was.

“She thinks she knows how to play the game,” Kurchev said, now speaking only to Relly. He was still ten feet away but he felt much nearer, and much more threatening, just by his presence. “Do you know the game, Relly?”

Relly shook his head fiercely. He was now afraid.

“The game. The game we all play. She thinks she knows how to top me.”

Kurchev snorted again, a foul and derisive thing that was as sinister as it was mocking.

“I never wanted to marry her, really. Do you know what I really wanted, Relly?”

Relly shook his head.

“I wanted her, Relly. That tight, wet cunt of hers. You know what I mean?”

Relly nodded his head. His stomach began to tighten.

“I wanted to fuck her. I still want to fuck her. I want to fuck her bloody. And she would love it, wouldn’t she?”

Relly said nothing.

“But that’s not the best part, oh no.”

Relly could feel his fingernails pierce his skin as one hand gripped the other.

“I don’t want to just fuck her. I want to fuck her over. Her pussy, her patrimony, and her power. In that order.”

Relly could not speak.

“I will have Tauros, Relly. Do you believe me?”

Relly nodded. All he wanted to do was leave at that point, so he could flee back to a place he was familiar with, no matter how frightening it might be. At least it was familiar.

“I will have Tauros. You go back and tell Lady Lancette that.”

Relly didn’t need to be told twice. Relly ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, thank you to everyone who provided comments and kudos on this throughout its run. I am happy to say that I have a third piece upcoming, a continuation of this series, but it needs some time so don't expect anything for another month or so. I am focusing on my character voices and making the story flow so I will need some time, but it will be out soon, rest assured. Thank you again to everyone who has read this! The community on here is also very receptive and I've been loving some of the other works I've read. I hope to be able to catch up on several soon as I'm preparing for the next bit.


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